The Roads We Walk
by Demolition.Lover.14
Summary: I know for a fact no one will believe me if I tell them now. You've been alive before you even released that infuriating video and I haven't said a word to anyone, so it will look a bit suspicious if I suddenly came out and tell them what's really going on. Sequel To Wisdom In The Face Of Danger.
1. Chapter 1

_**1.**_

Elspeth felt like she was in a dream, or some kind of trance, as she opened the door of the fire escape and walked back down the way she'd came. When she first went to the roof of the hospital, she didn't expect to be leaving in one piece. Then again, she didn't know what she had been expecting. She'd waited and watched Moriarty stroll away like they were just two friends saying goodbye after a quick catch up, and followed shortly afterwards. She was on edge. Elspeth half expected Moriarty to be waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, or around the corner, or even outside the front of the hospital, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was like he had completely disappeared. If it wasn't for his face still plastered on the screens of London, Elspeth might've started to question her own sanity.

She should've questioned it the second she thought it would be a good idea to confront Jim Moriarty on the rooftop of St Bart's Hospital. Stepping out onto the busy street, Elspeth brushed her fingers against her lips and tried not to shudder.

Just as she was about to start the walk home, a dark car with tinted windows pulled up alongside Elspeth. She tried not to grimace. Stuffing her hands in her pockets, she plastered a false smile on her face and wandered over. The back door slammed open; Mycroft did not look pleased to see her.

"Hi," Elspeth began.

"Get in the car," Mycroft ordered, climbing out the back seat and holding the door open for her so she couldn't bolt. Not that she would've done. " _Now_ , Elspeth."

Elspeth bit her lip and let the fake smile fade, sliding into the back seat. Sherlock was already there, his fingers flying across the keypad of his phone. He looked up when Elspeth moved over to sit next to him, a sly smile appearing on his face. She couldn't help but smile back. Maybe stealing a car and driver from under Mycroft's nose wasn't the most sensible plan, but if it made Sherlock laugh, it was worth it. Elspeth's smile faded when Mycroft took a seat next to her, the three Holmes' crowded together in one car, but she didn't say anything. Now wasn't the time to tell them she had just seen Jim Moriarty with her own eyes. She would wait until she and Sherlock were alone.

"Well?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock looked up from his phone momentarily and Elspeth frowned at her uncle. "You took a car without my permission, didn't tell any of us where you were going, completely ignored every call and message I left you. What excuse could you possibly come up with this time, Elspeth?"

"Uh . . ." Elspeth's mind went blank. "I don't have one?"

Sherlock snorted. Mycroft glared at them both.

"This is serious, Elspeth. You cannot just leave without informing us, anything could've happened to you. We have enough to deal with without adding your spontaneous joyrides on top of it all."

Elspeth sank in her seat and leaned against Sherlock with a quiet sigh, feeling little comfort when he bumped his shoulder against hers. He didn't look up from his phone, though. When Elspeth glanced down, she realised with mild amusement that her father was tweeting. She decided now definitely wasn't the right time to tell him about Moriarty. She would wait, however long that took.

* * *

"What you're about to see is classified beyond top secret. Is that quite clear? Don't minute any of this. Once beyond these walls, you must never speak of it. A D-notice has been slapped on the entire incident. Only those within this room – code names Antarctica, Langdale, Porlock and Love – will ever know the whole truth."

Elspeth sighed and slumped in her seat, the dimmed lights of the room making her feel sleepy. She sat in one of the chairs at the side, while Sherlock was in the centre with Mycroft standing next to him. Apparently this meeting did not concern her, but Mycroft wanted to keep both his brother and niece under the same roof for the time being so he could keep an eye on them. Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin sat at the desk with a third woman, each of them watching the footage from the night Sherlock shot Charles Augustus Magnussen. It played on a loop; Elspeth flinched every time there was a gun shot.

"As far as everyone else is concerned," Mycroft continued. "Going to the Prime Minister and way beyond, Charles Augustus – are you _tweeting_?"

Elspeth smirked, recognising the sound of a tweet being sent even as Sherlock attempted to hide his phone.

"No."

"Well, that's what it looks like."

"Of course I'm not tweeting. Why would I be tweeting?" Sherlock asked, the picture of perfect innocence. Mycroft demanded that Sherlock give him the phone and Sherlock refused to, resulting in a fight for it that lasted a few seconds. Sherlock clung desperately to his phone with both hands, and Mycroft all but climbed on top of his brother in an attempt to wrestle it off him. "Ellie – Ellie, help me!"

"Stay where you are, Elspeth," Mycroft snapped. He got the phone from Sherlock and glanced at the screen, raising an eyebrow as he scrolled. down Sherlock's twitter account. "Back on terra firma. Free as a bird."

"God, you're such a spoilsport," Sherlock muttered.

"Will you take this matter seriously, Sherlock?"

"I _am_ taking this seriously," Sherlock retorted, scowling at his brother. Elspeth took her own phone from her bag and found Sherlock's twitter account, still wondering when her dad got twitter. She didn't even realise he knew what twitter was. "What makes you think I'm not taking this seriously?"

"Hashtag oh what a beautiful morning," Elspeth read. "Really Dad?"

"Look, not so long ago I was on a mission that meant certain death – my death – and now I'm back, in a nice warm office with my big brother and my only daughter – are those ginger nuts?" Sherlock sprung to his feet and snatched a handful of biscuits from the plate. " _Love_ ginger nuts. Ellie, come and have a ginger nut. They're delicious. You like ginger nuts, don't you?" He swung back around to face Elspeth, all but force feeding her the biscuit before she finally snatched it from him. "Where did you disappear off to anyway?"

"Our doctor said you were clean," Lady Smallwood said.

"I am, utterly," Sherlock said, joining Mycroft's side and looking at his brother. "No need for stimulants now, remember? I have work to do." He took a large bite from one of the biscuits in his hand, scoffing when Sir Edwin accused him of being high. Elspeth couldn't blame him; Sherlock was acting odd. "Natural high, I assure you. Totally natural. I'm just" – Sherlock threw his arms up and sang – "glad to be alive!" Elspeth raised her eyebrows. Sherlock chuckled. "What shall we do next? What's your name?"

Sherlock pointed at the third woman, and she blinked nervously. "Vivian."

"What would you do, Vivian? It's a lovely day. Go for a stroll? Make a paper aeroplane? Have an ice lolly?" Sherlock threw the suggestions out like he didn't have a care in the world, oblivious to the way Lady Smallwood shook her head and Sir Edwin face palmed. Elspeth felt her cheeks reddening the more he spoke, glancing at Mycroft with mortification written all over her face. When Vivian tentatively suggested an ice lolly, Sherlock threw his arms up again. "Ice lolly it is! What's your favourite?"

"Dad," Elspeth snapped. "Stop harassing people about _ice lollies_."

"Thank you, Elspeth. That may have been the most sensible thing you've said all day," Mycroft said. Elspeth shot him a withering glance, but he ignored her as he raised the remote and restarted the security footage of Sherlock and Magnussen. Elspeth forced herself to watch. Her eyes widened when she realised it had been altered so that it wasn't Sherlock who shot Magnussen, but rather a sniper out of shot. In the new footage, Sherlock didn't even raise his gun.

"I see. Who is supposed to have shot him, then?" Sherlock asked.

"Some over-eager squaddie with an itchy trigger finger, that's who," Sir Edwin said.

"That's not what happened at all," Sherlock commented.

"How did you do that?" Elspeth demanded, rising to her feet and standing next to Mycroft so she could get a better look at the footage. She watched it over and over, taking in every detail, expecting Sherlock to raise the gun each time.

"We have some very talented people working here. If James Moriarty can hack every TV screen in the land, rest assured we have the tech to doctor a bit of security footage," Sir Edwin explained. Sherlock tossed a piece of biscuit in the air, scrabbling for it when it missed his mouth and landed down the side of the chair. Elspeth broke off a piece of her own biscuit and threw it at the side of Sherlock's head, smirking when he glowered at her. He threw the biscuit at her. Mycroft chose to ignore both of them. "That is now the official version, the version anyone we want to will see."

"No need to go to the trouble of getting some sort of official pardon. You're off the hook, Mr Holmes. You're home and dry," Lady Smallwood said.

"Ok, cheers," Sherlock said, jumping to his feet and pulling on his coat. "Come on, Ellie, I fancy chips."

"Obviously there's unfinished business," Lady Smallwood continued before Sherlock and Elspeth could leave. "Moriarty. You said he filmed that video before he died. You also say you know what he's going to do next. What does that mean?"

"I never said he was dead," Sherlock said. Elspeth bit her lip and glanced up at him, knowing it still wasn't the right time. Every time someone so much as mentioned Moriarty's name, her stomach knotted and her heart raced. "He isn't just trying to frighten us, he would never be that disappointing. He's planned something, something long-term, something that would take place whether he made it off the rooftop alive or not. Posthumous revenge, maybe. No – better than that. Posthumous game."

"We brought you back to deal with this. What are you going to do?" Lady Smallwood asked.

"Wait."

" _Wait_?"

"Of course wait. I'm the target. Targets wait. Look, whatever's coming, whatever he's lined up, I'll know when it begins," Sherlock said, putting his arm through the second sleeve and guiding Elspeth to the door with a hand on her shoulder. She'd lost a lot of colour in her face, and she was grateful for the support. "I always know when the game is on. Do you know why?"

Lady Smallwood sighed, exasperated. "Why?"

Elspeth couldn't help but grin as she turned back and said, "Because he's Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

The shark tunnel was quiet; eerily so. Elspeth followed Sherlock and craned her neck back, watching the sharks glide over their heads. She'd always been a bit wary of sharks. When they reached the end of the tunnel, Sherlock and Elspeth came to a darkened room with tanks on three of the walls. Elspeth walked forwards and stood as close to the glass as possible, biting her lip as a pair of flat eyes stared back at her when a shark swam by.

"You know how whales talk to each other? Specific sounds mean different things and some of them even have names . . . do you think sharks do that too?" Elspeth asked. Another shark passed her. "I think we should name one. That one right there." She pressed her finger against the glass. "We should call him Charles, in honour of Magnussen."

Sherlock took a seat on the bench behind her. "What did you tell the driver?"

"That Mycroft ordered me straight home, no questions asked," Elspeth said. She turned to face Sherlock. "I don't get why he's so pissed, it's not like anyone got hurt. And he didn't need to keep calling me. I'm an adult now, I can look after myself." Huffing, Elspeth walked away from the tank and sat next to Sherlock, glancing at him with a gloomy expression. "Am I in trouble now?"

"You're not in trouble. I would like to know what you were doing at St Bart's, though," Sherlock said. Elspeth glowered at him. "Don't look at me like that. You've spent the whole day acting like you saw a ghost." Sherlock frowned when Elspeth looked away, her eyes glazing over. He recognised the expression straight away; it was same sort of behaviour that followed her ordeal with Moriarty the first time round. "Has something happened? Has someone threatened you in some way?"

"No one has hurt me or threatened me," Elspeth said. She wasn't quite sure if it was a lie or not. "I am fine. Completely and utterly fine. See?" She plastered a false grin on her face, batting her eyelashes at Sherlock. He snorted. "When did you get twitter?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject, I genuinely want to know when you started to catch up with social media." Elspeth's eyes widened. "Oh God, you're not following me, are you? Please say you're not following me."

"I have no interest in your endless tweets," Sherlock said. "Do you remember the story about the merchant and Death?" Elspeth screwed her nose up and shrugged. She had a vague recollection of Sherlock telling her the story when she was younger, but she couldn't remember it fully. "There was once a merchant in the famous market at Baghdad. One day he saw a stranger looking at him in surprise, and he knew that the stranger was Death. Pale and trembling, the merchant fled the marketplace and made his way many, many miles to the city of Samarra, for there he was sure Death could not find him. But when at last he came to Samarra, the merchant saw, waiting for him, the grim figure of Death. 'Very well,' said the merchant. 'I give in. I am yours. But tell me, why did you look surprised when you saw me this morning in Baghdad?'"

"'Because,' said Death. 'I had an appointment with you tonight in Samarra,'" Elspeth finished. "So who is death and who is the merchant in this messed up situation?"

Sherlock frowned, looking to the side. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see."

"Right," Elspeth said, rising to her feet. "We had best get to work then, hadn't we? No point in sitting around staring at sharks."

"Where exactly are you planning on going?"

"To Baker Street, of course," Elspeth said, grinning from ear to ear. "Come on Dad, the game is on!"

* * *

 _I'm back! After a long hiatus I thought I would delve back into the Sherlock fandom; this fic is a sequel to my last fic, Wisdom In The Face of Danger. Others in the series are The Family Business and The Game Changer. My version of series 4 is going to be AU, as you no doubt picked up on already, with quite a few changes, but hopefully you'll all enjoy it!_

 _Please let me know what you think, I would really appreciate it! xoxo_


	2. Chapter 2

_**2.**_

"If this gets any bigger, I'm going to get two knives," Sherlock said, stabbing the knife through a large pile of letters until the tip hit the mantelpiece. Elspeth dropped into John's chair and swung her legs over the arm, grinning.

"You do realise that if we ever move out, Mrs Hudson will be a millionaire," she said. "She could charge us so much for all the damage you've inflicted on her poor innocent flat."

"You spray painted a smiley face on the wall for no other reason than you were bored," John pointed out, looking up from his blog and grinning at Elspeth over the laptop screen. She stuck her tongue back out at him and he laughed, turning his attention back to his screen. He hadn't updated in a while. John couldn't stop the stupid grin spreading across his face when he wrote that he was going to be a Dad in a matter of weeks. "And anyway, I don't know why you're complaining, Sherlock. It could pay to advertise."

Sherlock sat down in chair across from Elspeth, looking at his phone. She glanced at him, then at John and Mary, and smiled. It hadn't been long since her encounter with Moriarty, but it almost felt like it never happened. She didn't see him, he didn't call or text, she heard very little about him. Elspeth didn't sleep well at night, though. The nightmares were the only thing reminding her that it was real.

"What about Moriarty, then?" Mary asked, standing by the window and rubbing her heavily pregnant stomach.

"Ooh, I have a plan," Sherlock said. Elspeth raised her eyebrows at him. "I'm going to monitor the underworld. Every quiver of the web will tell me when the spider makes his move."

"Hashtag 221-Bring it," Elspeth read. "Really, Dad? _Bring it?_ You know I have friends on twitter who are actually following you and tagging me in every tweet you make. It's embarrassing. You have more followers than I do. It isn't right."

"It's not my fault I'm insanely popular," Sherlock retorted. Elspeth threw a cushion at him.

"Basically your plan is just to sit there solving crimes like you always do," John said dryly, trying not to laugh at Sherlock and Elspeth.

"Awesome, isn't it?"

They fell into routine as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Sherlock saw clients and solved crimes, John blogged about it, Elspeth helped as often as she could, and Mary complained profusely about being nine months pregnant. At one point Elspeth put her hand on Mary's bump and almost jumped out of her skin when the baby kicked, much to everyone's amusement. It wasn't quite so funny, however, when Mary almost gave birth in the back of John's car on the side of the road.

The camera flashed and Mrs Hudson peered at the screen, frowning. "Has it come out? They never come out when I take them!"

Sherlock, Elspeth, Mrs Hudson, and Molly had gathered together in John and Mary's home to welcome the new arrival. While Mrs Hudson and Molly fiddled with the camera and cooed over the baby, Sherlock stood to the side with his phone in hand. Elspeth hovered awkwardly. The baby was cute enough and she told Mary that, but she'd never held a baby before. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

 **Send my congratulations to the new parents – JM xx**

Elspeth stared at the text for a second, her thumb hovering over the delete button. She decided to keep it, if only to prove she wasn't delusional when she finally told Sherlock.

"Ellie, come and sit down," Mary called, moving over to make space for Elspeth. Shoving her phone in her pocket, Elspeth sat next to Mary and tried not to grimace when the baby shifted in Mary's arms. "Do you want to hold her?" Elspeth shook her head and started to protest, but Mary wouldn't take no for an answer. "Come on, you're the closest thing to an aunt she's ever going to have. You just hold your arms like this and" – Mary carefully placed the baby in Elspeth's arms, smiling when Elspeth automatically tightened her grip – "Ok, support her head. That's it. See? Easy peasy."

"This is so weird," Elspeth muttered, adjusting her arms and resting one hand underneath the baby's head. "Why am I doing this again?"

"Because you'll be babysitting a lot so you need the practise," Mary teased. She snapped a photo when Elspeth wasn't looking, grinning to herself. Elspeth couldn't help but smile as well when the baby opened her eyes and stared up at her, her whole fist closing around the tip of Elspeth's finger. "We're thinking about calling her Rosamund, Rosie for short. What do you think?"

"Rosie," Elspeth repeated. "Yeah, it's perfect. I'm kind of offended you didn't ask me to be a godparent, though."

"You do realise that if you were a godparent, you might become a legal guardian of our daughter if anything happened to John and I."

"Look at that, I'm not offended anymore," Elspeth said.

* * *

It was the morning of the christening, and Sherlock was still on his phone.

"Did you even go to bed last night?" Elspeth asked, bringing him a cup of tea and sitting on John's chair with her legs tucked underneath her. "Or did you just sit there all night tweeting? I will know if you're lying to me, by the way. Your twitter account is surprisingly easy to find."

Sherlock didn't look up from his phone. "Shouldn't you be getting ready?"

"You have to put that away when we're in Church," Elspeth said. Sherlock glanced at her irritably. "Put it in your pocket or something. You don't even have to turn it off, you can just leave it on silent." Sherlock made a noise of acknowledgement under his breath, but didn't put the phone down, and Elspeth rolled her eyes. She finished her own tea, then rose to her feet. "Ok, I'm going to get ready. Don't forget Lestrade and Molly will be here in about forty minutes so we can all go to Church together."

When Sherlock didn't respond, Elspeth sighed and made her way to her bedroom. The dress she'd picked out for the Christening – a dark blue lace dress with long sleeves – was already hanging up on the back of her bedroom door. Molly and Mary helped her pick it out while they were browsing for dresses online, and Elspeth loved it. She brushed her unruly hair and pulled it back into a neat bun, slipped into her dress, and applied light make up so she wouldn't look washed out if anyone took photos of her. She paused for a moment, looking up at the photo from John and Mary's wedding she'd taped to her mirror. It was of the four of them and Elspeth smiled up at it, amazed at how their lives had turned out.

A text alarm chimed from her phone, which Elspeth had left charging on the bedside table. She knew who it was from before she even checked it.

 **Nice dress. It would look better on my bedroom floor xx**

"Gross," Elspeth muttered. She put the phone down and it chimed a second time.

 **Have I ever told you how pretty you look with your hair up? xx**

Rolling her eyes, Elspeth stuffed her phone in the bottom of her purse and joined Sherlock in the living room again, hesitating in the doorway. She watched Sherlock on his phone and felt a knot in the pit of her stomach when she considered whether or not it was the right time to tell him what was going on. The morning of Rosie's Christening was quite possibly the worst time, but Elspeth didn't know if she could keep it a secret for much longer. Her phone buzzed in her purse, and she read the message against her better judgement.

 **Tell him and I'll have a bullet put through his head xx**

 _He can see me._ The thought sprung to Elspeth's mind. Her eyes swept over the living room, searching for a hidden camera, and she wandered over to the window. Pulling back the curtain, Elspeth bit her lip and stared out into the street below her, oblivious to Sherlock standing behind her. She jumped when he cleared his throat.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked. "You've been acting strangely for a few weeks now."

"Why would you ask if I'm alright if I've been acting strangely?" Elspeth teased, dropping the curtain and turning her phone on silent. If Moriarty did have anything else to say to her, it could wait until after the Christening. "I am fine, Dad. Absolutely fine. I was just keeping an eye out for Lestrade and Molly, they should be here soon."

Sherlock frowned, joining Elspeth by the window. "You would tell me if there was something bothering you," he said. "Wouldn't you?"

Elspeth tried to smile up at Sherlock, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Yeah, of course I would," she said. "Lestrade and Molly are here. Come on, we shouldn't keep them waiting."

Elspeth was quiet for the entire journey to the Church. Not that anyone noticed. Mrs Hudson chattered enough for all of them, and Molly made the occasional comment, while Lestrade tried to engage Sherlock in conversation. Elspeth smiled and made the appropriate noises when she needed to, but otherwise didn't say much. She spent a lot of time playing with the zip of her purse, like she was debating on whether or not to open it. Sherlock knew she kept her phone in her purse. Was someone texting her? The last time something like that happened, Catherine had been texting and calling Elspeth.

"You alright there, Ellie? You've been a bit quiet," Lestrade teased, grinning at her.

"I'm practising for Church," Elspeth said, smiling back at him. "How are you feeling? You're Rosie's other godfather, right?"

"I'm sure it won't be any more difficult than keeping an eye on you and Sherlock."

Everyone but Sherlock laughed.

There weren't many people at the Church, but Elspeth recognised a few guests from John and Mary's wedding. She grimaced when she saw Todd – the boy she'd had a brief relationship with – standing with his parents, a girl hanging on his arm. His new girlfriend, Elspeth suspected. She was blonde and curvy; the complete antithesis of Elspeth. He noticed Elspeth and gave her an awkward smile, which she returned after some hesitation. It had been a brief, immature relationship, but seeing him with another girl made Elspeth's stomach knot.

"He's only brought her to impress his parents," Sherlock murmured. Elspeth looked up at him. "He doesn't even like her that much."

The Christening went without a hitch for the most part, except Sherlock spent the entire ceremony on his phone, even when the godparents were called up to the vicar's side. Elspeth had tried to take it off him, but a Church wasn't the most appropriate setting for another wrestling match.

"Father, we ask you to send your blessings on this water," the vicar recited, drawing the sign of a cross in the water. "and sanctify it for our use this day, in Christ's name." He shook the water off his hand and turned to John and Mary. "Now, what name have you given your daughter?"

Mary beamed. "Rosamund Mary."

Sherlock looked up, frowning. "Rosamund?"

"It means rose of the world," Molly told him in a quiet voice. "Rosie for short. Didn't you get John's texts?"

"No. I delete his texts. I delete any text that begins with, ' _hi_ '," Sherlock said, turning his attention back to his phone. He didn't notice the way Molly's eyes shot skyward in exasperation.

"No idea why people think you're incapable of human emotion," she said. Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows pointedly at the pair of them, and Molly felt her cheeks tinge pink. "Sorry. Sherlock, phone."

Most people would've put the phone away, but then again, most people wouldn't have their phone out during a Christening ceremony in the first place. Sherlock hid his behind his back and continued to type, and Elspeth wondered if she could swipe it from him without being too obvious. Todd sat a few rows down from her, smiling at Elspeth when she glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone else had noticed Sherlock's poor behaviour. Elspeth glared at him and turned back.

"And now, the godparents," the vicar continued. "are you ready to help the parents of this child in their duties as Christian parents?"

"We are," Mrs Hudson and Molly said. When Sherlock didn't respond, Molly shot him a frown and elbowed him hard in the side.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," SIRI said from Sherlock's phone. "Please repeat the question."

* * *

"It could've been worse," Elspeth said, sitting next to Mary. After the Christening, they'd gone to a nearby pub for celebratory drinks and lunch, and John had been having stern words with Sherlock since they'd arrived. "You hear all these horror stories about students watching porn in their lectures and forgetting to plug their earphones in properly so the whole lecture hears. All things considered, SIRI going off in the middle of your ceremony really isn't that bad."

"Thanks Ellie, that really makes me feel better," Mary said sarcastically. "Can you hold Rosie? I'm bursting for the loo."

It was only the second time Elspeth had held Rosie. She wrapped her arms around her awkwardly, trying to remember how Mary had taught her to hold her and support her head at the same time, and forced a smile when some of the guests made comments about her being a natural. Mrs Hudson started babbling on about how Elspeth might be the next one to bring a new baby into the family.

"She's had too much to drink," Elspeth whispered to Rosie, who blinked up at her several times. "But you're not so bad, I guess." She smiled. "Well, Rosie Watson, I guess I should welcome you to our crazy little family. Between you and me, I have a feeling you'll fit in perfectly."

* * *

 _Thank you GirlFrom223aBakerStreet, HarleyIsQueenx, ash, Adrillian1497, sidbeak7, boardwalkblue, and Guest for reviewing! I hope you all enjoy this chapter; please let me know what you think!_


	3. Chapter 3

_**3.**_

"As ever, Watson, you see but do not observe," Sherlock said, turning towards John's chair. "To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery whereas, to me, it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy. That is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences. Now, for the last time" – he bent and picked up the rattle from the floor – "if you want to keep the rattle, do not _throw_ the rattle."

Rosie gurgled and chewed on her own fist. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock presented the rattle to her. Rosie took it, then promptly threw it straight back in Sherlock's face.

A few months had passed since the Christening, and it seemed as though John and Mary exploited Sherlock's role as godparent at every opportunity. While Rosie sat in her plastic chair perched on John's armchair, throwing her toys and getting distressed when they weren't handed back to her immediately, John and Mary slept on the sofa of Baker Street. Having not been around for the early years of Elspeth's life, Sherlock couldn't understand why or how they were so tired all the time, but as long as Rosie remained content he would allow her to stay in his living room. Still, he would've preferred it if she didn't keep throwing her toys at him.

"Why is Rosie's rattle on the floor?" Elspeth asked, wandering out of the kitchen with a mug of tea in one hand. She put the tea down, picked the rattle up and danced it around in front of Rosie for a few seconds, then handed it to her.

"She's always throws it when I give it to her," Sherlock grumbled.

"She probably doesn't like you," Elspeth teased. "I can't say I blame her." She unstrapped Rosie from her chair, lifting her into the air before resting the baby on her hip like Mary often did. Rosie chewed and shook her rattle in contentment, and Sherlock watched as Elspeth sat down with Rosie on her lap.

"You're a natural," he commented. Elspeth smiled up at him. "I thought you didn't like babies."

"I never said I don't like them, I just . . . avoid their general presence whenever they happen to be in close proximity and have vowed to never have any of my own," Elspeth said, grimacing. Sherlock smiled. Whenever asked, Elspeth would tell a long-winded story about her mother and the abandonment she'd felt ever since she was young and how it made her feel as though any attempt at motherhood would be damaged by Catherine's doing, but Sherlock knew Elspeth just wasn't maternal. Of course, there was some truth to her tale, but Elspeth otherwise had little interest in babies and children of any kind. "But Rosie is different. She's practically family, so I have to like her. It must be weird for you," she added, glancing up at Sherlock. "You never did the baby thing with me, did you?"

"I was present when you were born," Sherlock said. Elspeth's smile turned sad, and he realised what she meant. "No, I wasn't part of your life when you were a baby."

"Do you ever regret it? Not being there from the start?"

Sherlock frowned. When Elspeth was much younger, he would've said he didn't regret it. Watching her grow into the young woman that she was, however, made him realise how little time he'd had with her when he took all things into consideration.

"I regret it every day," he admitted.

Elspeth tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "So do I, Dad. So do I."

* * *

A text alert jerked John from his nap and he fumbled for his phone, pretending he hadn't fallen asleep on public transport. Rosie had been particularly grizzly the night before, so no one got a lot of sleep.

 **Baker Street? Tomorrow five PM? Lestrade says he has a belter.**

John smiled, considering Sherlock's offer. Another text came through.

 **Mary says it's fine.**

His smile growing, John nodded to himself and tucked his phone back in his pocket, watching as people passed him. As he turned his head to follow their path towards the back of the bus, John noticed a pretty woman sitting a few seats away from him, smiling at him. She was younger than him, and John returned the smile before looking away, only to glance her way a second time. She was still smiling at him; John couldn't help but feel somewhat self-conscious. It was always flattering when a woman took interest, but John knew he must've looked a right state after spending half the night up with Rosie. It didn't stop him from admiring his reflection in the window when he got off the bus, though.

John's cheeks turned red. Earlier that morning, he'd been changing Rosie's nappy and waving her plastic daisy at her to keep her entertained. He had tucked it behind his ear so he could use both hands, but completely forgot to take it off again.

 _Idiot,_ he thought. There he was thinking the young woman on the bus had actually taken a fancy to him, when all the time she was probably laughing at the ridiculous flower in his hair. He didn't expect to see the young woman standing behind him when he turned around.

"Hello," she said with a Scottish accent.

"Ah. Hello," John said, not quite sure what else to say.

She smiled. She had a very pretty smile. "I like your daisy!"

"Thank you. It's not really me, though, I don't think." John grimaced, watching her fiddle with her hair and run her fingers through it. That was flirting. He was certain of it. Women played with their hair when they flirted, and John couldn't bring himself to admit the plastic daisy belonged to the young baby he had waiting at home. "No, it's too floral for me. I'm more of a knackered-with-weary-old-eyes kind of guy."

"Well, I think they're nice," the woman said. "Nice eyes," she added, laughing. John laughed too, turning away and shaking his head in disbelief as he considered the thought that this young woman was actually flirting with him. She started to rummage through her handbag. "Look, I don't normally do this, but . . . um . . ."

"But you're going to," John said. He knew exactly what she was doing. She scribbled on the piece of paper she'd been holding in her hand on the bus, then handed it to John with a nervous smile. "What's this?"

"This is _me_ ," she said.

"Thank you," John said before he could stop himself. He never should've taken the number. He had a wife and a child at home, and it was only because it gave him such a huge ego boost that he even entertained the idea of flirting with this younger woman. Or so he kept telling himself.

He stared at the paper long after she left, then smiled. John had to go in the opposite direction of the young woman, but it didn't stop him from glancing over his shoulder and watching her go. Putting his briefcase down, John took his phone out and gazed at the photo of him, Mary, and Rosie he had saved as his screensaver. He felt a pang of guilt when he looked at his wife. Still holding the paper with the woman's number on it, John approached the nearest bin and pushed his hand into the gap, almost dropping the paper in. He hesitated. Smiled, then grimaced. John knew what he should do. Unfortunately, it wasn't what he wanted to do.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't lying when he'd told John that Lestrade had an interesting case for them. A young man, Charlie Welsborough, called his father from Tibet in order to wish him a happy birthday. It seemed simple enough – a young man Skyping his dad to say happy birthday wasn't anything out of the ordinary – but as Lestrade explained further, John realised why Sherlock was so excited about it.

"A week later, something really weird happens. Drunk driver – he's totally smashed, cops are chasing him," Lestrade said. John glanced over at Sherlock, trying not to roll his eyes when he saw his friend smiling. Elspeth was perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair, listening intently. "and he turns into the drive of the Welsborough house to try and get away. Unfortunately, he smashed straight into the back of Charlie's car and caused a petrol explosion, set both of the cars on fire. The drunk guy survived – they managed to pull him out – but when they put the fire out and examined the parked car, there was a body in the driver's seat."

John leaned forwards in his chair. "Whose body?"

"Charlie Welsborough, the son," Lestrade said. "The son who was in Tibet. DNA checks out. The night of the party, the car's empty, then a week later the dead boy is found at the wheel."

Elspeth glared at Sherlock when he chuckled. "Someone _died_ , Dad. It isn't funny."

"I thought it would tickle you," Lestrade said, reaching for his briefcase and taking out a small pile of folders. He handed one to John when he asked for the lab report. "Charlie Welsborough is the son of a Cabinet minister, so I'm under a lot of pressure to get results."

"Who cares about that?" Sherlock remarked. Elspeth rolled her eyes. "Tell me about the seats." Lestrade handed Sherlock a folder. "Made of vinyl . . . two different types of vinyl present. Was it his own car?"

"Yeah. Not flash," Lestrade added. "He was a student."

"Well, that's suggestive," Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair. "Vinyl is cheaper than leather."

"There's something else," John said. He looked up from the lab report. "According to this, Charlie Welsborough had already been dead for a week. The body in the car was dead for a week."

"Oh, this is a good one," Sherlock said, smiling up at Elspeth. She couldn't help but smile back at him; he hadn't been this excited about a case in months. He glanced at Lestrade. "Is it my birthday? You want my help?" When Lestrade nodded, Sherlock continued, "One condition. Take all the credit. It gets boring if I just solve them all."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a withering look. "Yeah, you say that, but then John blogs about it and you get all the credit anyway. Which makes me look like some kind of prima donna who insists on getting credit for something he didn't do."

"I think you hit a sore spot, Dad," Elspeth muttered.

"Like I'm some kind of credit junkie," Lestrade carried on, unaware that John was laughing and Sherlock was confused. "So _you_ take all the glory, thanks all the same." He packed away the reports and files, glaring at Sherlock. "Look, just solve the bloody thing, will you? It's driving me nuts."

"Anything you say, Giles," Sherlock said. Lestrade gave him a look; the one that suggested he had said something not good. "Just kidding."

"Greg," Elspeth said under her breath when Lestrade continued packing away the paperwork. Sherlock's brow furrowed. "His name is Greg."

"It's obvious, though, isn't it?" John asked. "What happened?"

Elspeth stared at John, her eyes wide. "Hang on – we've had this case for two minutes, and you worked out what's happened before Dad and I? Who are you and what have you done with the real John Watson?"

"Ha ha ha, very funny, Ellie. Of course I don't know what's happened, but that's what Sherlock normally says at this point," John said. Elspeth laughed and jumped up from the arm of Sherlock's chair, picking her coat up from where she'd flung it on the kitchen table. No matter how many times Mrs Hudson told her off, Elspeth never seemed to hang her coat up. "So what has happened, Sherlock?"

"That's why we're going to help Greg solve his little problem. To find out what happened," Sherlock said, also standing up and striding from the room. Lestrade looked at John, startled but pleasantly surprised that Sherlock had got his name right. He hadn't heard Elspeth whisper it to her father, clearly, but she wasn't going to tell him so. Instead, she smiled at both the men and followed Sherlock out the living room.

"So how's it going then, fatherhood?" Lestrade asked John.

"Good. Great! Yeah, amazing."

"Getting any sleep?"

"Christ, no."

"You're at the beck and call of a screaming, demanding, baby," Lestrade said, stopping at the top of the stairs to grin at John over his shoulder. Elspeth leaned against the banister and listened. "Woken up at all hours to obey his every whim." Lestrade glanced at Sherlock. "Must feel very different."

"Yes, well, you know how it is," John said, much to Elspeth's amusement as she trailed down the stairs after them. Sherlock didn't seem to understand the joke. "All you do is clean up their mess, pat them on the head."

"Are you two having a little joke?" Sherlock looked at Elspeth, who had paused at the bottom step. "Do you understand what the joke is?"

"Never a word of thanks," John continued. "Can't even tell people's face apart."

"Then it's all, 'ooh, aren't you clever? You're so, so clever!'" Lestrade said.

Sherlock took his coat from the hook at the front door. "Is it about me? Ellie, are they making jokes about me?"

Lestrade made a comment to John about Sherlock needing winding, and that just set both the men off in hysterical laughter that Sherlock still couldn't understand. He looked to Elspeth for some kind of explanation, but she just shook her head and grinned, biting her bottom lip so she wouldn't laugh as well. It was cruel to let them mock Sherlock like that, but he did it so often to other people that it was funny to see him so clueless when it happened to him. Unable to supress her laughter for much longer, Elspeth ducked past Sherlock and headed for the front door, where Lestrade and John were still joking. Sherlock frowned, thinking about what they said.

"No," he said to himself. "Don't get it."

* * *

 _Thank you Adrillian1497, boardwalkblue, sidbeak7, and afterain for reviewing! Hope you all enjoy this chapter!_


	4. Chapter 4

_**4.**_

Welsborough House was a large estate, and Elspeth couldn't help but feel slightly underdressed in her jeans as she trailed after Sherlock. Lestrade was chastising him about going easy on Charlie's family and behaving himself while John answered a Skype call from Mary, telling her about the case even though he'd texted her the details. Elspeth's own phone buzzed in her pocket; a text alert. She stopped for a moment to open the text, already certain of who it was.

 **You should've worn the hat. You would look sexy with it on xx**

Elspeth's lips twitched. She tried not to smile, shoving her phone back in her pocket and catching up with Sherlock as he waited for her on the porch.

"Are we keeping you?" he asked.

"What? No, no, it's just some stupid spam message," Elspeth lied. She looked over John's shoulder at his phone. "Hi Mary! Have you worked it out yet?"

"I'm working on it," Mary said, grinning back. "So, an empty car that suddenly has a week-old corpse in it? What are you going to call this one?"

"Uh . . . what about The Ghost Driver?"

"Don't give it a title," Sherlock said, walking into the hallway of Welsborough House. "I hate the titles."

"It's not about you, it's about the people who actually read John's blog," Elspeth retorted. "Though that title does kind of suck. No offence, John. Then again, the people who actually read your blog are the sort who would like that sort of title, so maybe you should call it that. Even if it is really rather terrible." She grinned and followed Sherlock into the next room with a spring in her step, and John said a quick goodbye to Mary before joining them.

"Mr and Mrs Welsborough," Sherlock said, sounding almost sincere as he reached out to shake Emma Welsborough's hand "I really am most terribly sorry to hear about your daughter."

"Son," John said.

"Son," Sherlock corrected.

"Thank you very much for coming," David Welsborough said. "We've heard a great deal about you – all of you, in fact," he added, looking from Sherlock to John and Elspeth. "If anyone can throw any light into this darkness, surely it will be you."

"Well, I believe that I" – Sherlock glanced to the right at the round table in front of the window, something catching his attention. – "can," he finished, focusing entirely on the shrine devoted to Margaret Thatcher. At the back was a certificate presented to David Welsborough by Thatcher herself, and in front of that were two framed photographs; one of Thatcher and one of David with her. there was a commemorative plate, and a small figurine painted in the likeness of the former Prime Minister. Sherlock focused on the space between the plate and the figurine, noticing the scuff on the leather cover.

Elspeth looked at Sherlock, then at the table he had directed his attention to. She screwed her nose up, not particularly fond of Margaret Thatcher, but realised there must've been something important about the shrine for Sherlock to be so focused. Noticing the Welsborough's realised Sherlock wasn't listening to them, Elspeth tugged on the sleeve of his coat.

"Sorry," he said, turning back. "You were saying?"

"Well," David said. "Charlie was our whole world, Mr Holmes. I . . . I don't think we'll ever get over this."

"No, I shouldn't think so," Sherlock said in an indifferent tone. He looked at Elspeth, allowing himself to wonder for a second what it would be like to lose her, before turning back towards the table. "So sorry, will you excuse me a moment?"

Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock walked over to the shrine and looked down. Elspeth joined him immediately, leaving John to make an awkward apology and excuse himself.

"Now what's wrong?" he asked.

"Not sure, I just . . . by the prickling of my thumbs," Sherlock murmured. John scoffed in disbelief; he was well aware that the phrase alluded to intuitive feelings. It was something Sherlock rarely relied on. "Intuitions are not to ignored, John. They represent date processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend." He straightened up and turned back to the Welsboroughs, pointing at the table behind him. "What is this?"

"Oh, it's a sort of shrine, I suppose, really," David explained, walking over with an eager smile. "Bit of a fan of Mrs T. Big hero of mine when I was getting started."

"Are you serious?" Elspeth demanded all of a sudden, giving Sherlock the perfect opportunity to examine the table once more. "You do realise what she did to the country? Her policies led to mass unemployment, she was the cause of the social housing crisis we're still dealing with today, and she reaped the benefits of every disaster she created for the economy. Not to mention she supported capital punishment." She may not have been born when during Margaret Thatcher's time as Prime Minister, but Elspeth had done her research. David Welsborough started to choke out excuses and explanations, but Elspeth folded her arms across her chest and raised her eyebrows. "I'm sorry, but you'd have to be some kind of twit to actively support Thatcher for so long."

"Yes, thank you, Ellie," Sherlock said, putting his hands on Elspeth's shoulders and turning her towards the table before she could offend the clients anymore. "Look at the gap. It's wrong. Everything else is perfectly ordered, managed – the whole thing is verging on OCD." He looked at the Welsboroughs. "My respects. This figurine is routinely repositioned after the cleaner's been in, this picture is straightened every day, yet this ugly gap remains. Something is missing from here, but only recently."

"Yes, a –"

"Plaster bust," Sherlock finished.

"Oh for God's sake," Emma Welsborough said. Between Sherlock's lack of attention and Elspeth insulting their political beliefs, she was quickly losing patience. "It got broken. What the hell has this got to do with Charlie?"

"Rug!" Sherlock said suddenly. "How could it get broken? The only place for it to fall is the floor, and there is a big thick rug."

"Does it matter?"

"Mrs Welsborough, my apologies," John said, sensing the tension. "It is worth letting him do this."

"Is your friend quite mad?"

"No, he's an arsehole. But it's an easy mistake."

David Welsborough explained that they'd had a break in recently and found the pieces of the bust out in the porch, insisting he couldn't understand why anyone would go through so much trouble to smash the likeness of Margaret Thatcher. Elspeth made a comment under her breath about there being plenty of reasons and John shot her a warning glare, as if to say _this isn't the time._

"I'm no expert, but possibly her face?" Sherlock suggested. Elspeth snorted. "Why didn't he smash all the others? Perfect opportunity, and look at that one." He pointed to the official portrait in the frame. "She's smiling in that one." John closed his eyes and Emma started to tell Lestrade this was all a waste of their time, stopping when Sherlock said, "I know what happened to your son."

"You do?"

"It's quite simple. Superficial, to be blunt. But first, tell me, the night of the break in. This room was in darkness?" Sherlock asked. David nodded. "And the porch where it was smashed – I noticed the motion sensor was damaged, so I assume it's permanently lit. I lack the arrogance to ignore details," he added when Lestrade questioned how he hadn't noticed that particular detail. "I'm not the police."

"Whoever smashed the bust smashed it where he could see it," Elspeth said. "Why?"

"Don't know. Wouldn't be fun if I knew."

"Mr Holmes, _please_ ," Emma said tearfully. It seemed to remind Sherlock that she, too, was a parent and devastated by the loss of her son. He began to explain what happened: on the night of David Welsborough's fiftieth birthday, Charlie pretended to be on his gap year still, but instead sent a pre-recorded message to his father in order to make him believe he was in Tibet. Charlie Welsborough had hidden himself beneath the cover of the car seat so he could surprise his parents and, unknown to anyone, suffered a seizure that killed him immediately. As no one had any reason to go near the car, Charlie's body remained there until the drunk driver smashed into the back of it.

"Really, I'm so sorry, Mr Welsborough, Mrs Welsborough," Sherlock said when he reached the conclusion, putting his hand on Elspeth's shoulder and guiding her from the room. His hand tightened just enough to make her glance up at him, but he didn't say anything. Though he wouldn't admit it, Sherlock found himself imagining losing Elspeth the same way Charlie died. The thought of her dying, alone and forgotten, made him want to pull her closer. He let go of her as they got to the porch. "This is where it was smashed."

"That was _amazing_ ," Lestrade said, he and John joining them before Elspeth could ask why he'd been holding her shoulder like his life depended on it. "The car, the kid!"

"Ancient history. Why are you still talking about it?"

"Because it's a bit more important than a broken bust of Margaret Thatcher, maybe?" Elspeth suggested, leaning against the porch. "Why are you so interested in that, anyway? It's just a bust."

"It's a loose thread, and I can't stand it," Sherlock said.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you have to pull on it," John pointed out.

"What kind of a life would that be? Besides, I have the strangest feeling," Sherlock said, blinking when the thought of Moriarty looking at him through the camera flashed in his mind. It was nonsense. He shook the thought away and walked towards the black cab parked in the driveway, Elspeth following close behind. "That's mine. You two take a . . . bus. I need to concentrate, and I don't want to hit you."

"I'll just stay quiet then, shall I?" Elspeth teased, climbing into the back of the cab. Her phone buzzed in her pocket; she ignored it for the entire journey.

* * *

"I met her once," Mycroft said. "Thatcher. Rather arrogant, I thought."

" _You_ thought that?" Sherlock asked, pacing in front of Mycroft's desk. Elspeth tried not to laugh, swinging her legs over the arm of the chair and ignoring Mycroft when he frowned pointedly at her. She and Sherlock had taken the cab to the Diogenes Club and met Mycroft in his office, sitting in silence for a majority of the journey. Elspeth didn't mind. She quite enjoyed having the time to sit and think.

"I know!" Mycroft chuckled, then held up Sherlock's phone. He'd handed it to his brother not long after they'd got to the office. "Why am I looking at this?"

"That's her. John and Mary's baby."

"Oh, I see." Mycroft looked at the picture for a few seconds, trying to think of a reasonable compliment to pay. He knew most people tended to emphasise a child's likeness to their parents, or comment on the aesthetic pleasure of seeing a baby, but it seemed rather forced on Mycroft's part to do such thing. He faked a smile anyway. "Yes. Looks . . ." He struggled for an appropriate term. "Fully functioning."

"Fully functioning," Elspeth repeated, taking the phone from him and handing it to Sherlock. "Really? Is that the best you can do?"

"Sorry, I've never been very good with humans."

"Obviously," Elspeth muttered. She pulled her own phone from her pocket and scrolled through the assorted messages Moriarty had been sending her throughout the day, a couple of them making her blush. She angled the screen so neither Sherlock nor Mycroft would see who had been texting her.

"Moriarty," Sherlock said. Elspeth almost dropped her phone, staring at him in shock. "Did he have any connection with Thatcher? Any interest in her?"

"Why on earth would he?" Mycroft asked. Elspeth looked between her uncle and father, putting her feet on the ground as she sat up straight.

"I don't know. You tell me."

Mycroft sighed, then opened a folder on his desk. "In the last year of his life," he began. Elspeth didn't dare contradict him. "James Moriarty was involved with four political assassinations, over seventy assorted robberies and terrorist attacks, including a chemical weapons factory in North Korea, and had latterly shown some interest in tracking down the Black Pearl of the Borgias – which is still missing, by the way, in case you feel like applying yourself to something practical."

"It's a pearl. Get another one," Sherlock snapped. "There's something important about this. I'm sure. Maybe it's Moriarty. Maybe it's not. But something's coming." He paused, looking down at Elspeth. "Are you alright, Ellie?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine. Are you? Sounds like you're having some kind of premonition," she teased, laughing shakily.

"The world is woven from billions of lives, every strand crossing every other," Sherlock said. "What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable, as inevitable as mathematics."

A brief smile appeared on Mycroft's face. "Appointment in Samara. The merchant who can't outrun Death. You always hated that story as a child. Less keen on predestination back then. You wrote your own version, as I remember. Appointment in Sumatra – the merchant goes to a different city, and is perfectly fine."

"Goodnight, Mycroft," Sherlock said, picking his coat up. "Come on, Ellie, we've got somewhere to be."

"Then he becomes a pirate, for some reason," Mycroft said thoughtfully, remembering Sherlock's many revisions to the well-known tale. His brother ignored him.

"Keep me informed," Sherlock called over his shoulder.

"Of what?"

"Absolutely no idea!"

* * *

 _Thank you afterain, sidbeak7, boardwalkblue, and Adrillian1497 for reviewing! xoxo_


	5. Chapter 5

_**5.**_

"Will you two _please_ keep it down?" Sherlock snapped, glaring at DI Hopkins and Lestrade. They'd both been talking unnecessarily loudly outside his living room door while he was with a client, and it was getting on his last nerve. They muttered sheepish apologies and Sherlock slammed the door, returning to his chair. "Now, you haven't always been in life insurance, have you? You started out in manual labour. Oh, don't bother being astonished," he added when Kingsley, the client, opened his mouth in surprise. "Your right hand is almost an entire size bigger than your left. Hard manual work does that."

"I was a carpenter, like my dad," Kingsley explained, looking down at his clasped hands.

"And you're trying to give up smoking, unsuccessfully, and you once had a Japanese girlfriend that meant a lot to you and now you feel indifferent about," Sherlock said. "You have ten individual e-cigarettes. Now, if you wanted to smoke indoors, you would have invested in one of those irritating electronic pipe things, but you're convinced you can give up, so you don't want to buy a pipe because the means you're not serious about quitting, so instead you buy individual cigarettes, always sure each will be your last. Anything do add, John, Ellie?" Sherlock glanced at John's chair, then did a double take when he noticed a balloon tied to a book propped up on John's seat. "John?"

"Yeah, yeah, listening," John said, leaving the kitchen.

"What _is_ that?" Sherlock asked, still staring at the balloon. He'd drawn a face on it, with tilted eyebrows and an impressed smile.

"That is me," John said. "Well, it's a me-substitute."

Sherlock frowned. "Don't be so hard on yourself, you know I value your little contributions."

"Yeah? It's been there since nine this morning," John said. "I was helping Mrs H with her Sudoku, and Ellie's been out for" – John paused and checked his watch – "I don't know, half an hour now?"

His eyes sweeping over the room, Sherlock noticed Elspeth's coat, boots, and bag were missing. He couldn't remember her leaving or her telling him where she was going, and he reached for his phone instinctively to text her. Sherlock paused. He considered how annoyed Elspeth had been at Mycroft for fussing over her even though she was an adult. Maybe she would get just as irritated at him for doing the same thing.

"What about my girlfriend?" Kingsley prompted. Sherlock put his phone down and continued with his deductions. Elspeth _was_ an adult; she could look after herself.

* * *

Elspeth found an empty bench and sat down, putting her bag by her side while she waited. Sherlock hadn't noticed her leave but John promised to let him know when he finally realised, and so far, she hadn't heard anything. She guessed Sherlock would text her when he needed her. If he needed her at all. It didn't seem like she was of much help recently, especially since her mind was otherwise preoccupied with other things. Wrapping her arms around herself, Elspeth looked up and down the street, wondering if she was doing the right thing.

"Didn't think I would turn up?" Moriarty teased, sitting on the bench next to Elspeth and stretching his arms across the back like he owned it. She stared at him. "Have I got something on my face?"

"No, you just look . . ." Elspeth bit her bottom lip, struggling not to laugh as she took in Moriarty's casual appearance. He wore a baseball cap and a pair of dark sunglasses, looking like the sort of tourist who spent their days looking at the Tower of London and taking photos of the pigeons in the street. "You look different."

"Well, I could hardly have your dear old uncle recognising me in CCTV footage now, could I? I'm waiting for my big reveal," Moriarty said. He gave Elspeth a sideways grin and even though he had sunglasses on, Elspeth could imagine the gleam in his eyes. "I must admit, I'm surprised you summoned me after weeks of ignoring me."

"I haven't been ignoring you," Elspeth said. "I chose not to respond to your texts, there's a difference. And I need your help with something. Have you got anything to do with a Margaret Thatcher bust being destroyed?"

"Believe it or not, Ellie, I do have better things to do with my time," Moriarty drawled. "No matter how much I dislike the woman."

"I didn't think so," Elspeth admitted, turning away and gazing in front of her. "I just had to make sure." She paused for a moment before asking, "What's the grand reveal you have planned, then?"

"Ah ta ta." Moriarty waggled his finger at her like he was scolding a schoolchild. Elspeth tried to ignore the blush that rose to her cheeks, glowering at him. "You have to wait and see." His eyes swept over her, taking in every detail of her face, and a shiver ran down Elspeth's spine when she remembered the brief kiss they'd shared on the rooftop of the hospital. She thought about it a lot; more than she was willing to admit. As he moved even closer, Elspeth thought he might kiss her again. "Have you figured it out yet? How I did it?"

His fingers toyed with the ends of her hair and Elspeth struggled to think. "I," she choked out. Moriarty raised an eyebrow expectantly. "I . . . haven't figured it out completely. Yet."

"Of course you haven't. You haven't told anyone about me either, or our little secret meetings," Moriarty teased. "Why is that? Is it because you enjoy it? Our late night conversations, sneaking around? Because I can assure you I most _definitely_ enjoy it."

"You make it sound so sordid," Elspeth muttered. She looked away, biting her bottom lip when Moriarty reached out and swept her hair behind her ear. "No, I don't enjoy it, but I know for a fact no one will believe me if I tell them now. You've been alive before you even released that infuriating video and I haven't said a word to anyone, so it will look a bit suspicious if I suddenly came out and tell them what's really going on." Elspeth completely and utterly refused to admit she did quite enjoy the adrenaline rush she felt whenever she sneaked out or hid a text from Sherlock and John. She wouldn't give Moriarty the satisfaction. "You have nothing to do with these busts being smashed then?"

"Absolutely nothing. I promise. Scout's honour," Moriarty said.

Elspeth frowned, then reluctantly decided to believe him. Her phone buzzed in her pocket; it was Sherlock, sending her an address.

"I have to go," she said. Sherlock was only a few streets away, and the text sounded urgent. Maybe he did need her after all. "You better not have lied to me about these busts, or I will tell everyone you've been alive all this time."

She stood up, and Moriarty followed suit. "Since when I have I lied to you?" he asked in a low voice.

He was standing unnecessarily close to her, his toes almost touching hers, and Elspeth resisted the urge to take a step back. Instead, she tilted her head to the side and gazed up at him for a second, her eyebrows raised. Moriarty took off his sunglasses. His lips tilted into a smirk.

"Jim from IT," was all Elspeth said before she turned and walked away.

* * *

"What took you so long?" Sherlock demanded when Elspeth met him, John, and Mary outside a phone box. John had Rosie strapped in a baby carrier on his chest and in front of Mary was a large bloodhound, who lifted its head at the sound of Elspeth approaching. "Never mind. Ellie, you remember Craig, don't you? This is his dog, Toby."

"Hi Toby," Elspeth said with a wide grin, kneeling in front of the bloodhound so she could stroke the top of his head. He gave her fingers a brief lick before gazing into space again. "Why is he just sitting here?"

"He's thinking," Sherlock said.

"He's been thinking for half an hour," John muttered irritably. Elspeth smiled and took the lead from Mary. "He's really not moving."

"Slow but sure, John," Sherlock said. "Not dissimilar to yourself."

John glared back at him. "You just really like this dog, don't you?"

"What's not to like? He's so cute and squishy," Elspeth said, still stroking Toby as she tried to distract herself from her meeting with Moriarty. She wrapped both of her arms around Toby's neck and leaned against him, batting her eyelashes up at Sherlock. "Can we get one? Please? I would be the utter epitome of responsible if we got a dog." Toby barked. "See, even Toby agrees we should get one. We could – woah!" All of a sudden, Toby shot up and started to lollop down the road with Elspeth in tow. "You should've warned me he did that!"

They walked for a while, Sherlock catching up with Elspeth and Toby while Mary and John followed behind. When they reached the Borough Market, Toby slow downed and sniffed at the large pool of blood in front of him. Sawdust had been thrown over it to soak it up while butchers carried carcasses over their shoulders. Toby whined mournfully and Elspeth sighed, kneeling down to wrap her arms around his neck again, as if to reassure him that he hadn't done anything wrong by taking them down the wrong trail.

"If you were wounded and you knew you were leaving a trail, where would you go?" Mary pointed out.

"Like hiding a tree in a forest," John said.

"Or blood in a butchers," Sherlock said, kneeling in front of Toby and stroking the top of his head. "Never mind, Toby, better luck next time." He stood up, looking around. "This is it, though. This is the one. I can feel it."

"Not Moriarty," John said. Elspeth glanced up at him.

"It _has_ to be him," Sherlock said. Elspeth bit her lip and tightened her arms around Toby for a second, burying her face in the side of his head as she tried not to look guilty. She couldn't exactly contradict Sherlock, even if she had heard the truth from Moriarty himself. "It's too bizarre, it's too baroque. It's designed to beguile me, tease me, lure me in. At last – a noose for me to put my neck into."

* * *

John and Mary went home with Rosie, and Elspeth reluctantly agreed to return Toby to Craig.

"I don't see why we can't get one," she said. "Mrs Hudson wouldn't mind . . . that much." Elspeth grinned up at Sherlock, who smiled back and made a noise of agreement under his breath. Toby stopped to sniff at the bottom of a lamppost and Elspeth took the opportunity to bring up the subject she had been avoiding since John and Mary left. "Do you really think it might be him? Moriarty?"

"It must be," Sherlock said. "It couldn't be anyone else." He looked at Elspeth and narrowed his eyes when he saw her frowning. "You don't think so?"

Elspeth shrugged. "I don't know. It's just . . . last time he tried to get your attention, he strapped people to bombs and threatened to blow them up." Her voice wobbled, the mere memory bringing tears to her eyes. She looked down at her feet, then at Toby, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. "Going from that to smashing busts seems a bit underwhelming, if you think about it."

Stepping closer, Sherlock put his hand under Elspeth's chin and lifted her head. "I promise you if Moriarty has returned somehow, I won't let him lay a finger on you. Last time was an error in judgement, but as long as we remain one step ahead, he can't harm you. I won't _let_ him harm you."

When Sherlock saw John with Rosie, it made him realise just how big a portion of Elspeth's life had missed out on. John got to see every moment of Rosie's life. He was there for each new development. He would get to see her learn to crawl and walk, witness her first word, feed her solid foods, and be able to look back in years and tell stories about all those major developments in Rosie's life. Sherlock never got that, and as the years passed, he found himself wishing more and more he had. Paternal instinct was odd. If someone hurt Elspeth, or made her cry, or scared her in any way, there was an instinct in Sherlock that made him want to protect her in any way possible. Even if the person who threatened was his own blood, he would stop at nothing to protect her from them.

"I know," Elspeth said softly, trying to smile. It felt more like a grimace though. "I _know_. And hey, you're my Dad, the dragon slayer. I know you won't let anyone hurt me." She smiled properly and added, "You would be the most amazing Dad in the whole world if you let me get a dog."

"You're not getting a dog."

Elspeth laughed, then handed Toby's lead to Sherlock. "I think I'm going to head home, actually. Toby wore me out."

"You look tired," Sherlock said. Elspeth tried not to be offended. "You haven't been sleeping well for a few weeks now. I can hear you at night moving about your room." It was always in the early hours of the morning that Elspeth seemed to start pacing, and Sherlock wondered if she woke up at that time or if she even went to sleep at all. Ever since she'd seen the video, Elspeth had been acting distant, even if she did try to disguise it with false smiles. Her eyes glazed over when she thought no one was looking, her lips tugging into a thoughtful frown. "You would tell me if something was wrong."

"You keep saying that," Elspeth said with a small smile. "Dad, I'm fine. Nothing is wrong, I promise you."

"If there is –"

"There isn't," Elspeth interrupted. "You don't have to worry about me all the time, I'm an adult now. I can look after myself. Case in point, I have a headache so I'm going to go home and hope Mrs Hudson has those amazing chocolate biscuits she hides in the back of her cupboards. See you later, yeah?"

She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed Sherlock's cheek, smiling up at him before turning away. As Elspeth walked down the street, she thought about Moriarty and the deception and everything she'd been keeping from her family. She didn't know what scared her most; keeping the secrets, or the realisation that she wouldn't be able to keep it for much longer.

* * *

 _Thank you Adrillian1497, Sophie, and InsaneKids159 for reviewing! Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, please let me know what you think xoxo_


	6. Chapter 6

_**6.**_

Elspeth wished she could say she was surprised when Sherlock told her they were going to Reading and breaking into a stranger's house in the evening, but she was used to it. Another Thatcher bust belonging to a woman had been smashed, and the owner had been killed in the process. There were six Thatcher busts that had been sold from the same supplier, and all but one had been smashed in the space of a few weeks.

"This has something to do with the Black Pearl mystery?" Elspeth guessed, kneeling in front of the door and picking the lock while Sherlock held a torch. They'd waited in the shadows for Sanderford and his daughter to leave the indoor pool, turning the lights off as they did. "So . . . what? The pearl is stashed inside one of the busts? Because it feels like a lot of trouble to go to if whoever is doing it just hates Margaret Thatcher."

"You're going to get us caught if you don't lower your voice," Sherlock said. Elspeth glared up at him.

"I could still be in bed, you know."

Sherlock grinned at her. "And miss an exciting opportunity like this one? A few years ago you would've been begging to break into a stranger's house with me."

"A few years ago I was a poor deluded teenager who put you on a pedestal," Elspeth said, grinning back before turning her attention back to the lock. She didn't notice Sherlock's grin fade. He couldn't figure out why or how, but somewhere along the line Elspeth had drifted away from him and grew a little more independent. She didn't follow him around, or beg to join him and John on a case, or do things just to prove she was capable. It felt like Sherlock had lost his shadow. "And we're in," Elspeth added when the lock clicked, standing up and opening the door. "I really hope they don't have some kind of motion sensor."

"They don't. I checked," Sherlock said, leading Elspeth inside. The indoor pool was quite spectacular. As well as the pool itself, Sandeford had installed a small jacuzzi in the corner and two silvers towers that fountained water in the main pool. Sherlock closed the door and stood by the window while Elspeth leaned against the door, wrapping her arms around herself and biting her bottom lip. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Elspeth said with a shaky laugh. Her arms tightened. "It's been a long time since I've been in near a pool." The smell of chlorine brought back unpleasant memories. "I'm ok. I'm fine. Seriously, just . . . concentrate on whatever it is we're doing right now." She shivered. "Should've brought a coat."

Sherlock paused, glancing at his daughter. A moment later he slid his coat off and offered it to her, knowing he could go without; he didn't feel that cold. He half expected Elspeth to refuse. She surprised him by taking the coat and pulling it on, smiling when the sleeves fell over her hands. Popping the collar up like Sherlock would and pulling the coat closer, Elspeth slid to the floor, sitting with her legs stretched out in front of her. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Somewhere around ten, Sherlock woke Elspeth from her doze and pressed a finger to his lips, indicating that she should stay quiet. A shadowed figure walked into the room adjoining the pool room – unaware of Sherlock and Elspeth watching – and picked up the Thatcher bust on the table, stuffing it into their bag. Elspeth climbed to her feet and Sherlock approached the intruder from behind just as the lights came on.

"Wouldn't it be much simpler to take out your grievances at the polling station?"

The intruder whirled around, whipping a pistol from his pocket, and Sherlock slapped the gun from his hands. Elspeth cried out as the bag swung towards Sherlock's head, relieved when her father caught it and threw it out of reach before punching the intruder in the face. While they struggled, fighting and circling each other, Elspeth darted for the bag that had skidded across the room. The bag with the Margaret Thatcher bust inside.

"You were on the run," Sherlock said. "Nowhere to hide your precious cargo."

Sherlock kicked the man's knee and the intruder made to retaliate, but Sherlock backed out of reach. The man regarded Sherlock for a few seconds, then lunged for Elspeth when she reached the bag. Sherlock threw himself at the man before he could get to her and pushed him away.

"You find yourself in a workshop," Sherlock said. "Plaster busts of the Iron Lady drying. It's clever, very clever. But now you've met me and you're not so clever, are you?"

The intruder breathed heavily. His eyes flickered between Sherlock and Elspeth. "Who are you?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

A murderous look flashed across the intruder's eyes. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

Elspeth wished she'd reacted sooner, frozen to the spot as the man crashed into Sherlock and sent them both hurtling through the glass window, straight into the pool. They disappeared under water for a few seconds. Sherlock surfaced first, but was pulled down straight away with the man's hands around his neck. When they emerged a second time, still fighting and struggling, the stranger dragged Sherlock to the jacuzzi and shoved his head under the water. Panic drenched Elspeth as she noticed limbs flailing and her father struggling to surface, and she ran forwards without a second thought. Even though the smell of chlorine made her want to heave and she couldn't escape the memory of what happened last time she was in a swimming pool, Elspeth threw herself directly at the intruder.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, both of them stumbling and falling. He crashed into her, knocking them both underwater. His hand pressed against the back of Elspeth's head as he held her there in his struggle to resurface. Elspeth tried to keep her mouth shut but all she could feel was the rush of water forcing itself down her throat, drowning her lungs as her vision blurred. Sherlock's coat weighed her down even as she resurfaced.

Gasping for air, Elspeth made for the side of the pool while the man turned his attention back to Sherlock. She climbed out the pool and stumbled to the kitchen, the sound of footsteps making her turn. Sherlock and the man were following.

Elspeth snatched the plaster bust from the bag. The man reached her first, grabbing her from behind. His nose made a satisfying crunch when she elbowed him, and as he stumbled backwards, Elspeth swung around with the bust in her hand. The intruder crashed to the floor.

Wet and bloody, Sherlock held a hand out. Elspeth handed him the bust without protest, leaning against the kitchen counter as a sudden wave of exhaustion rolled over her.

"You're out of time," Sherlock said. "Tell me about your boss, Moriarty."

"Who?"

Sherlock held the bust up threateningly. "I know it's him. It _must_ be him," he said. He was wrong – so wrong – and the intruder told him so, but still Sherlock refused to listen. Elspeth knew she couldn't tell him otherwise though. "Before the police come in and spoil things, why don't we just enjoy the moment? Let me present Interpol's number one case. Too tough for them, too boring for me. The Black Pearl of Borgias."

He hurled the bust to the ground, smashing the plaster to pieces. Giving Elspeth a smug smile, Sherlock looked down at the shattered bust and expected to see the black pearl. He was wrong for the second time that evening. Instead of the Black Pearl of Borgias, there was a large silver memory stick with four letters written in dark ink. A.G.R.A.

"Is that . . .?" Elspeth asked, her voice trailing off.

"It's not possible," Sherlock said, lowering himself to his knees and picking the memory stick up. "How could she . . .? I don't understand. She destroyed it."

"She," the intruder said. In the confusion he'd got hold of his pistol, aiming it at Sherlock as tears filled his eyes. "You know her." Sherlock frowned, raising his head. "You both know her. You _do_ , don't you? You _know_ the bitch. She betrayed me – betrayed us all."

"This is about Mary," Elspeth whispered.

"Is that what's she calling herself now?"

Police sirens echoed from outside, Lestrade calling out through a loudhailer and urging the intruder to lower his weapon. Sherlock stood up and Elspeth lurched forwards to his side. He put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her behind him, keeping one arm outstretched as if to barricade or protect her. He wouldn't put her in danger. Not when there was a gun pointing at him.

"Give it to me," the intruder said, also climbing to his feet. Sherlock's hand tightened on the memory stick. " _Give it to me!_ " Lestrade's voice called again, telling the man to go out slowly with his hands in the air, but the stranger shook his head. "Nobody shoots me," he shouted. "Anyone shoots, I kill them both."

Elspeth clutched Sherlock's sleeve. He pushed her further behind him, stepping to the side so he could shield her from view entirely.

"Lay down your weapon," Lestrade ordered. "Do it now."

"I'm leaving this place," the intruder said, raising his voice for the police to hear. "If no one follows me, no one dies." Lestrade urged him to lay down his gun a second time; the man scoffed. "You're a policeman. I'm a professional." He lowered his voice as he turned back to Sherlock. "Tell her she's a dead woman. She's a dead woman walking."

Sherlock held his gaze. "She's my friend," he said. "And she's under my protection. Who are you?"

"I'm the man," the intruder responded. His voice shook with anger. "Who's going to kill your friend. Who's Sherlock Holmes?"

"Not a policeman," was all Sherlock said. Elspeth flinched as the intruder shifted the aim of his gun, firing at the sensor beside the door so all the lights went out. Still clutching Sherlock's arm, she stared into the darkness and struggled not to cry. Sherlock gently unhooked his arm from her grip to wrap it around her shoulders, holding her close as he guided her towards the door to meet Lestrade. "Don't say anything. Let me do the talking."

"Already planning on it," Elspeth muttered dully.

* * *

It felt like hours before Elspeth washed the stench of chlorine out of her hair, standing underneath the hot water of the shower for as long as she could bear. Her skin was red by the time she got out, wrapping herself in a towel and wiping the condensation of the mirror so she could look at her reflection. There were no noticeable bruises this time, and the few she had would heal quickly. Running both her hands through her damp hair and unknotting the tangles with her fingers, Elspeth thought about everything that had happened, her heart racing. It all became one big blur. Moriarty – Mary's past – the Thatcher busts – the intruder – the Black Pearl of Borgias – John and Mary's marriage – Rosie – Sherlock – Moriarty's secret … Elspeth felt as though she was trying to spin several plates at once, struggling to keep them all from toppling. How many times had she told herself she would tell Sherlock the truth about Moriarty? She'd lost count.

Elspeth dried herself off and changed into a pair of fresh pyjamas, wrapping her arms around herself as she wandered into the living room aimlessly. Her thoughts felt like fog and she was stumbling through them.

"Here," Sherlock said quietly, leaving the kitchen and holding a mug out for Elspeth. Hot chocolate; her favourite. "Are you alright?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Elspeth said. He had a dark bruise under his left eye. "So . . . Mary."

"You mustn't say anything," Sherlock told her, holding the memory stick in one hand and twirling it between his fingers. Elspeth curled up on the sofa. "To Mary or to John." He frowned and stood in front of the fire, tapping the memory stick against the fireplace in quiet contemplation while Elspeth sipped her drink. He wanted to protect John and Mary, she understood that. That was why people had secrets, wasn't it? To protect the ones they loved. "I can't believe I've been so stupid. I was so convinced it was him . . ."

"Moriarty," Elspeth said. Sherlock turned around. She said his name so rarely, avoiding it as much as she could in conversation, and her voice trembled whenever Elspeth did mention him. "It's too subtle. Smashing plaster busts was never his thing, not to bring you into a new game or whatever you thought he was trying to do." She sighed, putting her drink to one side. A knot formed in the pit of her stomach as she uttered the next sentence. "You don't even know if he's back or not."

Sherlock made to answer, but stopped when the living room door opened and Lestrade walked in. When they'd left Sanderford's house, Sherlock had made Lestrade promise his team would find the intruder, demanding regular updates on his whereabouts. Lestrade thought it was part of the case, that Sherlock couldn't let it go unsolved. Elspeth knew he didn't want that man loose when Mary's life was in danger.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade shook his head. "He can't have got far. We'll have him in a bit."

"I very much doubt it," Sherlock said, taking his phone from his pocket and typing a message. He'd been spending so much time on that phone recently Elspeth had to fight the urge to rip it from his hands and throw it into the fire. She wanted him to notice – to realise – something wasn't right.

"Why?"

"Because," Sherlock said, heading for the door. "I think he used to work with Mary."

* * *

 _Thank you afterain, Sophie, Adrillian1497, boardwalkblue, Ea, and MaryKeat for reviewing! Sorry for the delay in updating; uni deadlines crept up on me suddenly. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, let me know what you think! xoxo_


	7. Chapter 7

_**7.**_

He remembered the pottery workshop, the desperation he had felt as he stuffed the memory stick into the bust of Margaret Thatcher. He remembered the gunshots, the shouting, aiming at anyone who threatened him or the others. He remembered being bound to the chair for hours on end, beaten and abused, spitting his own blood onto his lap and feeling his bones crunch with every blow. He remembered seeing others hanging from the ceiling by their wrists, listening to them scream and cry as they were flogged repeatedly, the whips tearing into the delicate flesh of their backs.

He remembered one word: _ammo._

But most importantly, he remembered Mary.

* * *

"I am an idiot," Sherlock said as Mary stepped into the small vault of the Church. It was a pleasant enough room, with mismatched furniture and lights dotted around to give the space a subtle illumination that alluded to the privacy desired by whoever decorated. "I know nothing."

"Well, I've been telling you that for ages," Mary said cheerfully. Sherlock didn't smile back at her. "That was quite a text you sent me. What's going on, Sherlock?"

"I was so convinced it was Moriarty, I couldn't see what right under my nose. I expected a pearl," Sherlock said, looking down at the memory stick he held. Mary's eyes widened in recognition; she moved towards him. "Yes, it's an AGRA memory stick like you gave John, expect this one belongs to someone else. Who?"

"I don't know … we all had one, but the others –" Mary stopped, a thought springing to her mind. "Well, haven't you even looked at it yet?"

"I glanced at it, but I'd prefer to hear it from you," Sherlock said. "I'll know the truth when I hear it."

And so Mary explained to Sherlock the origins of the memory stick, and how she and the three others agents – a polite term – each had one that contained all the information. Every alias, their background, everything. To betray each other would mean destroying themselves. It had been a standard job, the British embassy in Tbilisi taken over, but a last minute change of plan changed everything and all Mary could clearly remember was the code word _ammo_. It was six years ago, and until Sherlock showed her the image of the intruder from earlier that night, Mary was convinced she was the only one who made it out alive.

"Oh my God," Mary said. "That's Ajay – that's him! What, he's alive?"

Sherlock touched the bruise under his eye. "Very much so."

Mary could barely contain her excitement at the sight of her old friend, staring at Sherlock in disbelief when he told her Ajay's promise that she was a dead woman walking. Ajay wouldn't have said that. She was certain of it. She and Ajay were friends; they were family. All four of them were, and none of them would've hurt the other. Especially not now they knew they weren't the only survivors. If she could find him – see him again – then maybe things would be different. She could explain what happened, why it all went wrong. He would adjust to a civilian's life just as she did because that was what they did. They adjusted.

"I suppose I was always afraid this might happen," Mary admitted softly, sinking into the chair across from Sherlock. "That something in my past would come back to haunt me one day." She put her head in her hands, closing her eyes. "God, I just wanted a bit of peace and I really thought I had it."

"No. Mary, you do," Sherlock promised. He stood up and leaned down to her level with an assuring look on his face. "I made a vow, remember? To look after the three of you. Stay close to me and I will keep you safe from him. I promise you." He remembered making a similar promise to Elspeth. Stay close to him and he would keep her safe from Moriarty. But no matter how many times he seemed to tell Elspeth, it never made it so.

"There's something I think you should read," Mary said, standing up and handing Sherlock a piece of paper. "I hoped I wouldn't have to do this . . ."

Sherlock lifted the paper, inhaling deeply when he smelled something unfamiliar. Immediately his vision blurred, his body wobbling and tottering back into the chair behind him, his mind desperately trying to stare conscious as Mary took the memory stick and slipped away with her hood up over her head.

As the room went dark, Sherlock heard a song echoing in his ears, one he recognised but he couldn't remember where from.

" _I that am lost. Oh, who will find me deep down below the old beech tree?_ "

* * *

"What do you mean Mary's gone?" Elspeth asked, holding a grizzly Rosie on her hip and gently bouncing her in an attempt to calm her down. "What happened? Where's she gone?"

"I don't know," John said while Sherlock sat at the living room table, typing on his laptop. "I really don't know – she just packed up and left. Didn't even let me know she was going. All she left me was this note saying she can't have a normal life with all of us hanging on her gun arm . . . she didn't even think to mention Rosie." He sighed, running his hand through his hair and turning away for a moment. He whirled around to face Sherlock again. "Does this have something to do with you? Did you know about this?"

"I had my suspicions she would take the memory stick," Sherlock admitted. "Which is why I took some precautions."

"What precautions?" John demanded, his voice rising.

"Uh, why don't I take Rosie for a walk?" Elspeth suggested, realising there would be no calming Rosie down once Sherlock and John started arguing. "Her pram is downstairs, right?"

"Yeah, she's had a bottle," John said. "She should be due for a nap soon."

It took Elspeth a few minutes to successfully strap Rosie into her buggy, then get it out of 221B. John and Mary always made it look so easy, and Rosie wailing didn't make it much better. For someone who was due a nap, Rosie seemed incredibly awake and aware. The crying stopped after a short while but she didn't seem to want to go to sleep at all, much to Elspeth's chagrin. Soon the streets of London became too difficult for her to navigate the buggy around, so Elspeth changed paths and headed for a nearby park, hoping the peace would lull Rosie into her nap. She found an empty bench and sat down, gently rocking the buggy back and forth while Rosie gurgled and chewed on her fist, struggling to keep her eyes open.

"Aw, isn't she cute?" a familiar voice asked over her shoulder. Elspeth glared at Moriarty.

"I'm trying to get her to sleep, shut up," she said. Moriarty laughed and moved to sit next to her, leaning forwards to look at Rosie as she dozed off. "If you wake her up, I swear I will kill you slowly and painfully."

"Rosamund Watson," Moriarty said, ignoring her. Elspeth wasn't surprised he knew her name. "Good thing she doesn't look like Doctor Watson, that would be unfortunate." He grimaced comically. Elspeth struggled not to smile; she and Mary had spent many evenings joking that the baby would have John's nose or his ears. "Very cute. I didn't know you were the maternal type, Ellie."

"I'm not. Rosie's family," Elspeth retorted. "It's different." Still, it struck her as odd that even Moriarty would notice how protective she was of Rosie. For one who generally avoided babies at all costs, Elspeth found herself spending more and more time with the newest addition to the Watson family. "What are you doing here anyway? Are you following me?"

"What would you do if I was?" Moriarty asked. Elspeth bit her lip, unsure whether to be scared or not by the idea. "Besides, you're the only one I can have _fun_ with. I'm so _bored_." He pouted. "I have no one to play with because Sherlock is all distracted and Doctor Watson is being boring and now even you're finding better things to do without me. I heard about your recent fight, by the way," Moriarty added. Elspeth stiffened and glowered at him, trying not to dwell on the idea that he'd been keeping tabs on her. "Is this the bit where you tell me I should see the other guy?"

"It was hardly a fight," Elspeth grumbled. "The guy was trying to drown my Dad." She smiled a little. "I did hit him over the head with a Thatcher bust."

Moriarty beamed at her. "That's my girl."

* * *

 _My darling,_

 _I need to tell you this because you mustn't hate me for going away._ _I gave myself permission to have an ordinary life. I'm not running. I promise you that. I just need to do this in my own way, but I don't want you and Sherlock hanging off my gun arm. I'm sorry, my love._ _I know you'll try to find me, but there is no point._ _Every move is random and not even Sherlock Holmes can anticipate the roll of a dice._ _I need to move the target far, far away from you and Rosie, and then I'll come back, my darling. I swear I will._

John read the note Mary left several times over while Sherlock continued to work on his laptop, the pair sitting in silence. When Sherlock explained he'd put a tracking device inside the memory stick before he went to meet Mary and tell her about Ajay, John didn't know how to feel. Annoyed his best friend and his wife would do it behind his back, furious at Mary for promising she'd left her old life behind, upset she could leave them behind so easily. He stared at Mary's handwriting for a few seconds, then crumpled the note in his fist and took his phone from his pocket, reading the recent text he'd been debating on ignoring since that afternoon. Both he and Sherlock were so deep in thought they didn't hear the front door open, or Elspeth swear as she struggled to get the buggy back into 221B Baker street, or her carry Rosie up the stairs.

"We're back," Elspeth said, opening the living room door. John shoved the note and phone away, smiling when he saw Rosie. "She had a nap, but I also think she may need a nappy change so I'll leave that to you." She deliberately left out the spontaneous meeting with Moriarty, handing Rosie over to John. "Everything ok?"

"Yeah, yeah," John said. "I better change this one before it's too late."

"Dad," Elspeth said, getting Sherlock's attention for the first time since she'd entered the room. He looked up from the laptop. "Everything ok?"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said. He glanced at his laptop, then looked at Elspeth again and narrowed his eyes. "Are you alright? You look a little . . ." He struggled to find the right word. "Flustered."

"You try pushing a baby around in London while she's wailing like a fire engine," Elspeth said with a lopsided grin, sitting in the chair opposite him and playing with the pen lying in front of her. "What's going on with Mary, then? She's disappeared."

"Not completely," Sherlock said. "I put a tracer in the memory stick. We won't lose track of her anytime soon."

"That's really sneaky and I'm fairly certain a bit illegal. And very Mycroft-like," Elspeth added as an afterthought, grinning when Sherlock glared at her over the laptop screen. "What? Keeping tracks on someone, watching from a computer screen, adding tracers to memory sticks when they're not looking. You are more like Mycroft than you care you admit." She imagined Sherlock doing the same to her. Or worse, Mycroft tracking her every move. Elspeth dreaded to think what would happen if they found out about her impromptu meetings with Jim Moriarty. "You're not tracking me, are you? Please tell me you're not tracking me with a tracer in my phone. Or one injected into the side of my neck."

"When would I have injected a tracking device into the side of your neck?" Sherlock asked in bemusement. "And how would I have done it without you noticing?"

Elspeth shrugged. "You could've had Mycroft's secret agents do it in the dead of night. Or when I was born."

Sherlock frowned at her, then shook his head. Not a day went by when Elspeth didn't fail to bemuse him, but he couldn't help noticing she avoided the question when he asked if she was alright. Taking Rosie for a walk didn't warrant the glazed over look in her eyes, or the colour drained from her cheeks. She had been like that for a few weeks now; ever since Moriarty's video appeared on every screen in London.

"Ellie," Sherlock said, putting the laptop to one side and leaning forwards. "If there's something bothering you –" He cut himself off when John walked back into the living room with Rosie in his arms. "Never mind."

"We've got to do something," John said. He handed Rosie to Elspeth, who cradled her on her lap automatically, and reached for Sherlock's laptop so he could follow Mary's progress on the map. "We can't just sit here while my wife is off halfway across the world doing God knows what!"

"What do you propose? We all get plane tickets and go after her?" Elspeth asked.

John looked at her for a few seconds, then nodded. "That's exactly what I'm going to do. Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced at Elspeth. She sighed and said, "I think I should stay here. Not that I don't want to help you with your marriage and everything, but we can't really drag Rosie along and relying on Molly and Mrs Hudson isn't fair. I mean, Molly has a job and Mrs Hudson can't be with Rosie twenty-four seven. They need me to help out."

What Elspeth didn't mention was she needed the time alone to figure out what Moriarty's motive behind faking his death was, along with the big reveal he kept mentioning.

"You want to stay behind," Sherlock said. A few years ago, Elspeth would've jumped at the chance of travelling to another country to track someone down, but it seemed like she wanted less and less to do with him the older she got. He thought back to the conversation they'd had at Sanderford's house, and while John made plans on reuniting with Mary, Sherlock couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling he was losing Elspeth more and more as each day went by.

* * *

 _Thank you Ea, Adrillian1497, Guest, and MaryKeat for reviewing! Sorry again for the delay in updating. University deadlines suck._


	8. Chapter 8

_**8.**_

Morocco was Mary's latest stop, covering her dark wig with a scarf for modesty and protection from the sun. She had lost count of the days since she left John and Rosie, lost track of the miles between them. It didn't make any of it easier though. All she knew was she had to keep going until the threat was far from her family and out of the way, especially when she considered what Sherlock had told her about Ajay. She couldn't let him take John and Rosie from her. Not after all the years she spent building herself a new life. Moving briskly through the covered marketplace and weaving between stalls, she glanced over her shoulder for any signs of being followed before turning into a narrow alleyway towards the hotel.

Stepping inside, Mary put her ear to the lattice door and listened, taking her pistol from her bag. She could never be too careful; she of all people knew that.

"Not like this, my friend," a male said. "You haven't got a chance, not a chance." Mary kept her breath steady, holding the gun with both hands and moving forwards. "I've got you where I want you. Give in. Give in! I will destroy you. You're completely at my mercy."

"Mr Baker," a much more familiar voice said. "Well, that completes the set." Mary frowned, lowering her gun at the sound of laughter and protests. "Who else am I missing?"

"Master Bun," the young man said, coming into view as Mary stepped into the room. He sat cross legged on the floor in front of a low table, across from the last person Mary expected to see. Game cards were spread across the table, some put together in neat stacks of four or five. "It's not a set without him. How many more times, Mr Sherlock?"

"Maybe it's because I'm not familiar with the concept. Ellie did try to teach me when she was younger, but she wasn't the most efficient of teachers," Sherlock said, letting out an exasperated breath as he lowered the playing cards onto the table. He glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, hi Mary. Nice trip?"

"How the –" Mary stopped herself from swearing as Sherlock reminded her there was a child present. "How did you get in here?"

"Karim let me in," Sherlock said. Karim, the young boy playing Happy Families, smiled and waved. "Karim, would you be so kind as to fetch us some tea?"

"No," Mary said, watching Karim leave to get tea as Sherlock asked. "No, I mean how did you find me? And don't say you're Sherlock Holmes because that isn't what I mean. Every movement I made was random, every new personality just on the roll of a dice!"

"Mary, no human action is every truly random," Sherlock said. "An advanced grasp of the mathematics of probability mapped onto a thorough apprehension of human psychology and the known dispositions of any given individual can reduce the number of variables considerably." Mary stared back at him, her mouth open but no words leaving as she tried to wrap her head around what he was saying. "I myself know of at least fifty eight techniques to refine this seemingly infinite array of randomly generated possibilities down to the smallest number of feasible variables." Mary nodded, starting to understand. "But they're really difficult, so instead I just stuck a tracer on the inside of the memory stick."

Mary's mouth dropped open. Realisation dawned on her, and she started to laugh. "Oh, you bastard!" she said. "You bastard! The mathematics of probability? Feasible variables?"

"You believed that," Sherlock said, also laughing. Mary shook her head in disbelief. "I started to run out about then."

"In the _memory stick_ ," Mary said.

"Yeah," John said, walking in behind her. He wasn't laughing. "That was my idea."

"John," Mary breathed out. She should've realised wherever Sherlock would be, John was sure to follow him. She took a step towards him and tried not to feel hurt when he flinched away from her, unable to meet her eyes. Mary couldn't blame him. She'd left with only a note as an explanation, didn't even bother to say goodbye to Rosie; she didn't even get the _chance_ to say goodbye to Rosie. "You got my note, then?"

John's lips twitched, almost like he was supressing a smile. "Yeah," he said again in a tight voice, clenching and unclenching his fist. "Yeah, I got your note. I got the message."

"I'm sorry –"

"Don't." John took in a deep breath and shook his head. "Just . . . don't."

Mary pressed her lips together and nodded, looking between John and Sherlock. "Where are Ellie and Rosie?" she asked.

"Ellie chose to stay at home," Sherlock said. "Rosie is with her and Mrs Hudson. You don't need to worry about her wellbeing, she's safe." He frowned, glancing from John to Mary. "Maybe you should both take a seat."

"The last thing I want to do is take a seat," John snapped.

"I know," Sherlock said. "but you both need to talk, and there's a lot to talk about."

* * *

"Come on, Rosie," Elspeth said over Rosie's loud crying, bouncing her on her hip and damning Mrs Hudson to hell for ever leaving her in charge. She never should've said she would watch Rosie while the landlady popped to the shops. Mrs Hudson offered to take her, but Elspeth thought it would be too much of a hassle to carry the shopping and deal with the buggy in the busy streets of London, not to mention the buses. Thinking back, Elspeth realised she should've just gone with Mrs Hudson so she wouldn't be stuck at home with a crying baby she had no idea how to calm. "You've just eaten so you can't be hungry, I've changed you . . . what could you possibly want from me?"

Rosie wailed louder and Elspeth felt close to tears herself, swinging Rosie from one hip to the other. She needed John and Mary to be there; they would know how to calm her down. Elspeth wasn't maternal enough.

"Oh dear, having problems?"

Elspeth spun around, glaring at Moriarty. "How the hell did you get in here? You're not supposed to be here – get out before anyone realises you're here, or Mrs Hudson comes home," she snapped. "Mycroft probably has this whole place bugged, you know. You're going to ruin this big surprise you've been going on about for weeks."

"Bug the flat? Please, that's so two years ago," Moriarty scoffed. He closed the living room behind him and wandered into the kitchen. "Got any tea? I'm parched."

"By all means, help yourself," Elspeth said. She snatched Rosie's favourite rattle from the coffee table and waved it about. "Look at this, Rosie. What's this?" Her wails subsiding, Rosie reached out with a pudgy hand and took the rattle from Elspeth, waving it for a second. Elspeth sighed with relief. All of a sudden, Rosie shrieked and threw the rattle as hard as she could onto the floor before continuing to cry. Elspeth threw her head back. "Rosamund Mary Watson, what is _with_ you today?"

"Kettle's boiling," Moriarty said. "Give her here."

"What? No!"

"Just give her here and make us some tea," Moriarty said, taking Rosie from Elspeth's arms before she could protest again. Straight away, Rosie's cries died down. Elspeth stared at him. "Tea, Ellie. Chop chop."

"I'm not your maid," Elspeth said, then turned and went to the kitchen with a look of disbelief. Moriarty was holding Rosie and calming her down, and it worked. She hoped Mycroft really didn't have the flat bugged, or she would be in serious trouble. She poured two cups of tea and carried them through to the living room, where Moriarty had sat in Sherlock's chair with a much happier Rosie on his lap. "What is going on?"

"What can I say? Babies love me." Moriarty shrugged. "Where are Doctor Watson and Mary, then?"

"I don't know," Elspeth admitted. Moriarty raised his eyebrows. "I mean – Mary's . . . gone away, and Dad and John are following her to bring her home. It's all to do with these Thatcher busts getting smashed." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It's complicated."

Moriarty made a noise of agreement under his breath. "Trade you," he said, nodding towards the tea still in Elspeth's hands.

Elspeth put her cup down, then passed Moriarty his tea and all but snatched Rosie from his arms. She cupped the back of Rosie's head with one hand, the feeling of her in her arms easing the anxiety a little. Part of Elspeth wanted to believe Moriarty wouldn't hurt Rosie, but another part of her knew this was the same man who had blown up an apartment full of innocent people with a bomb strapped to an elderly lady because he didn't want her to reveal his identity just yet. Rosie was content in Elspeth's arms, gurgling happily when she was handed the rattle a second time.

"Why are you here?"

Sipping his tea and putting it to one side, Moriarty looked comically offended. "You ask me that every time I see you, Ellie. I'm beginning to think you're suspicious of me for some reason."

"You have to have a reason for coming," Elspeth said. "You wouldn't just pop over for some tea and a chat."

"And there was me thinking I could pop over for exactly that," Moriarty teased. Elspeth glowered back at him. "Oh Ellie, when will you see? You're the only one who comes _close_ to challenging me these days."

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

Elspeth grinned. "Yes you did."

"Ok, I did," Moriarty said, his eyes lighting up as Elspeth started to engage in the playful banter. He rose to his feet and approached her, standing almost too close for comfort. Almost. "But it's getting a _teensy_ bit boring now, so maybe you and I should work out a new way to . . ." His eyes began to wander. " _Challenge_ each other."

Moriarty leaned in towards her and, against her better instinct, Elspeth found herself letting him.

"Ellie, I'm home!" Mrs Hudson called from downstairs. "I brought you a few bits, I'll just pop up in a second."

"Oh crap," Elspeth said, her eyes widening as she stared up at Moriarty. "Move. Quick." Without thinking, she grabbed Moriarty by the hand and dragged him into the kitchen, shutting the screen door just as Mrs Hudson walked into the living room of 221B. "Mrs Hudson, hi! How were the shops?"

"Busy as ever, but I did manage to pick up those biscuits you like and – oh! Some more toilet paper. I don't know how you and Sherlock get through so much so quickly, I'm beginning to think you're eating it," Mrs Hudson said, setting the bag down and spotting two cups of tea by the armchairs. "Have you got company I don't know about?"

"What? No – no," Elspeth said with a nervous laugh. "I guess I'm so used to making Dad tea as well I just made two out of habit. I didn't even realise my mistake until a few seconds ago. Silly, I know."

"Not to worry, I'll just pour one away in the kitchen –"

"No, it's ok," Elspeth interrupted, stepping in front of Mrs Hudson before she could find out Moriarty was hiding in the kitchen. "I'm going to drink both of them."

"Two cups of tea?"

"Yeah." She'd said it now; there was no point in going back. "Why let perfectly good tea go to waste?"

Mrs Hudson narrowed her eyes, then decided she'd seen enough of Sherlock's eccentricities not to be concerned about Elspeth's odd behaviour. Instead, she offered to take Rosie downstairs for a couple of hours so Elspeth could rest, gently closing the living room door behind her. Elspeth lingered by the door and waited until she heard Mrs Hudson's door shut too, letting out a breath she'd been holding before opening the screen doors to the kitchen. Moriarty poked his head out and smirked at her in amusement.

"Why let perfectly good tea go to waste?" he repeated.

"Shut up. Mrs Hudson could hear you, you know."

"You're an excellent liar," Moriarty said. "They just roll off your tongue, don't they? Have you ever considered a criminal career? You'd be excellent."

"Time for you to go," Elspeth said, laughing as she led Moriarty out the living room. She made sure Mrs Hudson's door was firmly shut before they got to the front door, resisting the urge to push Moriarty out. "Give me some warning next time you decide to make a spontaneous visit."

"Then it wouldn't be spontaneous," Moriarty said, still smirking. Elspeth glowered at him and he laughed quietly, taking her hand in his own. Elspeth's eyes widened as Moriarty turned her hand and leaned in to kiss the inside of her wrist, her pulse thundering against his lips. "See you around, Ellie."

Elspeth closed the front door behind him, then leaned against him and exhaled shakily. Despite everything, she smiled to herself. Her life was twisted and full of lies and secrecy, and though she would never say so, Elspeth kind of liked it that way.

* * *

 _Thank you afterain and Adrillian1497 for reviewing!_


	9. Chapter 9

_**9.**_

"AGRA," John said. Mary nodded. "You said it was your initials." He glared at her when she insisted they _were_ her initials … in a way. "So many lies. I don't just mean you."

"What?" Mary asked.

"Alex, Gabriel, Ajay … you're 'R'." John paused, watching Mary as she nodded once. Suddenly he realised. He thought of his daughter waiting for him back at home, wondering if she was aware of his and Mary's absence or if she knew she wasn't sleeping in her own bed. Maybe she was just too young to realise any of it; John certainly hoped that was the case. He briefly wondered how Elspeth was coping with Rosie, then decided to focus on the matter at hand. "Rosamund Mary."

"I always liked Mary," she admitted, smiling a little. She knew psychiatrists would have a field day with the reasoning behind giving her daughter her former name, but she'd been so fond of it and couldn't bear to part with it.

"Yeah, me too," John said. He smiled too, but only for a second before his face hardened once more. "I used to." He stood up, walking away a few paces and staring out the window because he couldn't bear to look at Mary for much longer. She made him angry; so angry. "You could have stayed," he continued, turning back to face her. "You could have talked to me. That's what couples are _supposed_ to do – work things through." Mary nodded, murmuring her agreement under her breath. "Mary, I may not be a very good man, but I think I'm a bit better than you give me credit for, most of the time."

"All the time," Mary corrected softly, trying to calm her husband. The hardness of John's features faded. She had that effect on him. No matter how angry he was, she could make things better with a few words. He didn't know whether she calmed him or talked him out of the anger. "You're always a good man, John. I've never doubted that. You never judge, you never complain. I don't deserve you. I . . ." Her voice trailed off. "All I ever wanted to do was keep you and Rosie safe, that's all."

John sat down and reached out, putting his hand on top of Mary's clasped ones.

Sitting in a chair at the other end of the room, Sherlock watched them both. "I will keep you safe," he said, standing up. "But it has to be in London. It's my city, I know the turf. Come home and everything will be alright, I promise you." The red dot of a laser appeared on the wall behind John and Mary. Sherlock yelled out, " _Get down!_ "

Mary grabbed John and pulled him down. Sherlock flipped the low table to one side as a barrier against the shooter. Mary ran to the far side of the room, rummaging in her shoulder bag. Several shots were fired before Ajay kicked the door open and marched in, his rifle raised in front of him. Mary fired three shots from her pistol, Ajay taking cover around the corner of the doorway. Sherlock knelt between the bureau and a cabinet with Mary crouching on the other side, John hiding behind the upturned table as all four of them caught their breath.

"Hello again," Ajay called.

Lifting her head at the sound of a familiar voice, Mary asked, "Ajay?"

"You remember me. I'm touched."

"Look, I thought you were dead," Mary said. "Believe me, I did."

"I've been looking forward to this for longer than you can imagine," Ajay said.

"I swear to you, I thought you were dead," Mary insisted. "I thought I was the only one who got out."

Ajay responded by firing a single shot into the upturned table John hid behind, obscured from Mary and Sherlock's view. Sherlock stretched a hand towards Mary, taking the pistol she handed to him. As Ajay revealed he'd found them by following Sherlock – he was a clever man, but not so much so he realised he was being traced the entire time he searched for Mary – and Sherlock shot to his feet, the bullet he fired shattering the light above them. He swung the pistol round to aim at Ajay, who dropped into a crouch.

"Listen," John said, feeling desperation creep in his voice. "Whatever you think you know, we can talk about this. We can work it out."

"She thought I was dead." Ajay's voice turned bitter. "I might as well have been."

"It was always just the four of us, always – remember?" Mary asked. "So why do you want to kill me?"

"Do you know how long they kept me prisoner? What they did to me? They tortured Alex to death," Ajay said. Mary closed her eyes at the sound of Ajay's sigh, trying not to think about her old friend. "I can still hear the sound of his back breaking. But you . . . you – where were you?"

"That day at the embassy, I escaped. But I lost sight of you too, so you explain: where were you?"

"I got out, for a while," Ajay said. "Long enough to hide my memory stick. I didn't want that to fall into their hands. I was loyal, you see. Loyal to my friends. But they took me, tortured me. Not for information. Not for anything except fun." He remembered the pain. Endless pain. Laughter at his expense. He still dreamed about it. "They thought I'd give in, die, but I didn't. I lived, and eventually they forgot about me rotting in a cell somewhere. Six years they kept me there, until one day I saw my chance. I made them pay. You know," Ajay added. "All the time I was there, I just kept picking up things. Little whispers, laughter, gossip. How the clever agents had been betrayed. Brought down by you."

John looked at the open bag lying on the floor a short distance away. There was a pistol in it.

The high pitched ringing of a train whistle echoed as it passed the window, the light illuminating the room for a brief moment. Ajay rose from his hiding place. Mary grabbed the pistol Sherlock held out for her as John scrambled for the bag. Ajay rounded the corner, Mary waiting for him with her pistol aiming at his head and his aiming at hers. John held his own gun in his hands as he aimed it at Ajay.

"You know I'll kill you too," Mary said calmly. "You know I will, Ajay."

"What, you think I care if I die?" Ajay asked. "I've dreamed of killing you every night for six years, of squeezing the life out of your treacherous, lying throat."

Sherlock spoke up then, his voice quiet. "What did you hear, Ajay? When you were a prisoner, what exactly did you hear?"

"What did I hear?" Ajay repeated. "Ammo. Every day they tore into me. Ammo. Ammo." His voice trembled. "Ammo." He inhaled a shaky breath. "Ammo. We were betrayed!"

"And they said it was her?"

"You betrayed us," Ajay said to Mary.

"They said her name?" Sherlock demanded.

"Yeah, they said it was the English woman."

Before anyone could respond, a Moroccan policeman burst in and fired two shots into Ajay's back. Mary's screams filled the room.

* * *

"You know you aren't supposed to be in here," Mycroft said as he walked into his office at the Diogenes Club. He closed the door behind him and Elspeth looked over her shoulder, smiling at her uncle as though she was the perfect picture of innocence. Mycroft sighed. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit?"

"Careful Mycroft, you almost sound pleased to see me," Elspeth teased.

"I'm a very busy man. I don't have the time to entertain you and keep an eye on Sherlock, wherever he's run off to this time," Mycroft said. Elspeth raised her eyebrows at the revelation Mycroft was, in fact, still keeping tabs on Sherlock. That meant he was probably still keeping an eye on her, which didn't bode well considering Moriarty was alive and she had still neglected to mention it to anyone. She sincerely hoped Mycroft didn't have footage of the happenings in 221B. "Why are you here, Elspeth?"

"I'm bored. And I'm lonely." Elspeth slumped in her seat and glowered at Mycroft. "I've been stuck at home keeping an eye on Rosie and helping Mrs Hudson, and when Rosie isn't there I'm sleeping because no one tells you how many times a baby will wake up in one night when you offer to babysit. I'm completely and utterly bored and –" She cut herself off. Mycroft looked at her expectantly for her to continue. Straightening up, Elspeth reluctantly finished, "And I miss Dad. Like . . . a lot more than I thought I would when I said I'd stay behind. Which sucks majorly, because I'm a legal adult and I shouldn't be so dependent on him all the time. Most people my age have moved out by now, or are at university, or have great jobs where they're earning loads of money, and I'm still at home."

"Clearly, you're trying to distance yourself from Sherlock," Mycroft said. Elspeth glanced at him. "Otherwise you would be with him right now, instead of using my office as some sort of therapy session."

"That is the most literal interpretation of distancing oneself I've ever heard," Elspeth said with a straight face.

"You may not realise, Elspeth, but I do observe these things. You're spending less time with him than usual, and you're not communicating as you did before," Mycroft pointed out. Elspeth straightened up in her chair and turned her head to the side, biting her bottom lip as she considered everything he said. "I don't know what your intentions are, but if you plan to move on from Baker Street I suggest you talk to Sherlock rather than spend your time moping."

Elspeth was quiet for a moment. "You would miss me if I went, wouldn't you?"

Mycroft looked at her. "That depends where you're planning on going," he remarked. "Do I need to prepare a farewell party any time soon?"

"Sometimes I consider just . . . I don't know, leaving," Elspeth admitted. "I don't know where I would go or what I'd do, but I think about doing something with my life other than being Dad's shadow. And the worst part is I don't even know if anyone would notice, or miss me."

"Your absence would be duly noted by everyone," Mycroft told her. "Myself included."

It wasn't exactly the heartfelt admission that he would miss her every day Elspeth had hoped for, but it was good enough. Elspeth smiled at her uncle and said, "You know, I would notice your absence too if you ever left."

"You needn't ever worry about that," Mycroft said. "I believe England would fall in my absence."

Elspeth smiled, then jumped at the sound of a phone ringing. It wasn't her own; Mycroft took his mobile from his pocket. Judging from his expression, Elspeth knew who it was immediately.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, the distaste marring his expression. Elspeth smiled a little to herself, then felt a pang of disappointment when she realised her father hadn't called her. She checked her phone in case of any missed calls, but there were none. No, he had decided to call Mycroft for whatever reason. She sighed. "An unexpected phone call, I must say."

"Put him on speaker," Elspeth said. Mycroft shushed her and rose to his feet, resting his elbow on top of the filing cabinet as he tried to listen to what Sherlock was saying. "Mycroft, put him on speaker – there's a button – we can both hear him then."

"Hang on, Sherlock." Mycroft moved the phone down from his ear and glared at Elspeth. "I'm trying to have a conversation here, Elspeth."

"Put him on speaker," she repeated for the third time. "Come on, I haven't spoken to him in ages." Mycroft rolled his eyes, but did as she asked so Elspeth could hear Sherlock while he spoke. "Hey Dad, I'm here too," she called across the room.

"Hello Ellie." She could almost hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Elspeth said. "Are you coming home soon?"

"Soon," Sherlock promised. Elspeth smiled again and Mycroft glanced her way, his own lips twitching with sentiment. "Mycroft, I need you to listen carefully." And then Sherlock began to relay the events of the few days in Morocco, telling Mycroft and Elspeth about Ajay, everything he had said to them. Elspeth bit her lip at the thought of his threat to Mary and flinched when Sherlock described how the former assassin had been shot in the back. "The English woman," he said, recounting the torture Ajay endured. "That's all he heard. Naturally he assumed it was Mary."

"Couldn't this wait until you're back?" Mycroft asked, exasperated. Elspeth glared at him.

"No, it's not over. Ajay said that they'd been betrayed. The hostage takers knew AGRA were coming," Sherlock said. "There was only a voice on the phone, remember, and a code word."

"Ammo, yes," Mycroft said. "You said."

"How's your Latin, brother dear?"

"My Latin?" Mycroft repeated, frowning. Sherlock listed three words: amo, amas, amat. "I love, you love, he loves. What –" He cut himself off, realisation dawning on him. Elspeth's eyes flickered between Mycroft and the phone, confused.

"Not ammo as in ammunition," Sherlock prompted. "But amo meaning . . .?"

"You'd better be right, Sherlock," Mycroft said, hanging up. "As pleasant as it was to see you, Elspeth, I really must be going. I suggest you do the same."

"Wait, what?" Elspeth asked, rising to her feet and following Mycroft out of the office. "You can't just – what is even going on anyway? Why was Dad going on about Latin? What does amo mean?" She darted past Mycroft and stopped in front of him, folding her arms across her chest as she glared at him so he could no longer pass her. "Why isn't anyone telling me anything?"

"You said so yourself. You're an adult and shouldn't be so dependent on him," Mycroft said. He brushed past her and said over his shoulder, "Perhaps you should start exercising that independence from now on."

Elspeth watched Mycroft go. She didn't call after him, like she was tempted to, but rather counted the steps until he disappeared from view and sighed as she ran a hand through her hair. For the first time in her life, Elspeth began to wonder if Mycroft really did know what was best for her and Sherlock. It did nothing to shake the knot in the pit of her stomach, and as she made her way out of the building, Elspeth realised she felt completely and utterly lost.

* * *

 _Thank you Sophie and afterain for reviewing, and I'm so sorry for the delay in updating. Deadlines are nearly over so hopefully I should be able to update more frequently._


	10. Chapter 10

_**10.**_

Lady Smallwood walked down the corridor, Vivian following close behind, but as they reached the security panel their access was denied. Frowning, Lady Smallwood touched the pass to the panel a second time. She tried a third time, but the same message appeared on the panel; access denied.

"Bloody thing," she said, looking over her shoulder at the security guard and Sir Edwin. "What's going on?"

"I'm very sorry, Lady Smallwood," Sir Edwin said. "Your security protocols have been temporarily rescinded."

* * *

Elspeth was perched on the windowsill when the taxi pulled up outside Baker Street, a wide grin spreading across her face when she saw Sherlock climb out. She jumped up from her seat and rushed to the top of the stairs just as the front door opened, beaming at her father.

"Hi," she said. She went to run down the stairs to hug Sherlock, then stopped herself at the last minute as she remembered her conversation with Mycroft the previous day. If Sherlock noticed her hesitation, he didn't say anything. "How was Morocco? Was it amazing? Are John and Mary ok? Are you ok? That Ajay didn't hurt you, did he?"

Sherlock gave Elspeth a bemused smile, carrying his luggage up the stairs. "Fine, debatable, yes, yes, and no," he said in answer to all of her questions. He didn't say so, but he had missed Elspeth. More than he anticipated he would. Though he felt a sense of relief she wasn't there when Ajay found them, he missed her on the journey there and back, as well as the excitement she would've shown in the markets of Morocco. It wasn't the same without her. "Have you been behaving yourself? Mycroft tells me you've been invading his office recently."

"Invading his office," Elspeth scoffed, following Sherlock into the living room. He put his luggage down and smiled again, glancing at her as he opened his suitcase. "I went once yesterday and that was only because I was –" _Lonely_. "– bored. He's so dramatic, he acts like it's the world's biggest conspiracy whenever I happen to want to see him."

"You must've been bored to visit him voluntarily," Sherlock commented.

"Yeah, well, it's a good thing I did otherwise I probably wouldn't have heard from you," Elspeth said before she could stop herself. Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked at her. Elspeth shrugged. "Just saying. You found the time to ring Mycroft. It would've been nice to hear from you as well."

"I didn't think you would be interested in hearing from me," Sherlock said. "It wasn't exactly a holiday. I thought you would be busy with Rosie anyway." He paused, then reached into his luggage. "Will this make it up to you?"

He handed her a plastic bag. Elspeth felt a smile playing on her lips as she took it, laughing when she opened the bag to reveal a toy camel. It was clearly designed for a small child of sorts, but Elspeth had never had many stuffed toys growing up and Sherlock thought of her the second he saw it, imagining her reaction to the real camels passing in the streets. She would've loved to see them. As Elspeth thanked him and chose a name for the toy, Sherlock made a mental note to take her to Morocco one day, then wondered if parents still took their adult children on holiday. Maybe she would prefer to go on her own.

"I'm going to call him Cornelius," Elspeth announced, bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts. He raised an eyebrow at her. "Don't judge me. Cornelius is a majestic name." Flopping onto the sofa with the newly-named camel on her lap, Elspeth asked, "How are John and Mary doing? You did bring them home, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," Sherlock said. "They're fine. I think. They didn't do a lot of talking." A thought came to his mind then, his hand resting on Elspeth's shoulder as he gently pushed her to the side. "I need to do something. Don't follow me, I'll be back later with John and Mary."

"But you've only just come back," Elspeth called after him.

* * *

"Your office said I would find you here," Sherlock said, walking into the enclosed area of London Aquarium he'd visited previously with Elspeth. Vivian Norbury – Sherlock remembered her from Mycroft's office when the footage of Magnussen's murder had been edited – sat with her back to him, watching the sharks swim past.

"This was always my favourite spot for agents to meet," she said. "We're like them: ghostly, living in the shadows."

"Predatory," Sherlock said. He glanced at the shark tank and saw a distinctive one float past. The one Elspeth named Charles.

"Well, it depends which side you're on," Vivian remarked. "Also, we have to keep moving or we die."

"Nice location for the final act. Couldn't have chosen it better myself. But then, I never could resist a touch of the dramatic," Sherlock said, still watching the shark Elspeth named swim by.

"I just come here to look at the fish," Vivian told him, her tone almost dreamy as she rose to her feet and stepped closer to the shark tank. "I knew this would happen one day. It's like that old story – there once was a merchant in a famous market in Baghdad." Sherlock closed his eyes, recalling a similar conversation with Elspeth in that very room. He felt a sense of relief he'd left her behind. "I'm just like the merchant in the story. I thought I could outrun the inevitable. I've always been looking over my shoulder; always expecting to see the grim figure of –"

"Death," Mary said, walking into the room and stopping by Sherlock's side. "Hey Sherlock. John is on his way."

Sherlock nodded, then gestured towards Vivian. "Let me introduce Amo."

" _You_ were Amo?" Mary asked. "You were the person on the phone that time?"

Vivian nodded, then began to explain. Selling secrets was a daft offer to refuse, and after all, she got a nice cottage in Cornwall with the money. When Lady Smallwood was taken hostage, Vivian could've hardly believed her luck that day. Lady Smallwood gave the order to tip off the hostage takers, but it was Vivian who sent a second order to the terrorists, giving them a clue about the codename should anyone have had a curious mind. It did the trick.

"I was tired," Vivian admitted. "Tired of the mess of it all. I just wanted some peace, some clarity. The hostages were killed, AGRA too. Or so I thought," she added, looking at Mary. "My secret was safe. But apparently not. Just a little peace. That's all you wanted too, wasn't it? A family, home. Really, I understand. You as well, Mr Holmes. I've seen you and your daughter, I've read about everything that's happened to her since your fame increased. You want nothing more than to keep her safe, don't you? So just let me get out of here, right? Let me just walk away. I'll vanish. I'll go forever. What do you say?"

"After what you did?" Mary demanded, taking a step towards the older woman. Vivian pulled a pistol from her bag and aimed it at Mary in one fluid movement.

"I was never a field agent. I always thought I'd be rather good," Vivian said.

"Well, you handled the operation in Tbilisi very well. For a secretary," Sherlock said. "Can't have been easy all those years, sitting in the back keeping your mouth shut when you knew you were cleverer than most of the people in the room."

"I didn't do this out of jealousy!"

"No? Same old drudge, day in, day out, never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street," Sherlock said. "They've taken up the pavement outside the Post Office there. The local clay on your shoes is very distinctive. Yes, your _little_ flat. On your salary it would have to be modest and you spent all the money on that cottage, didn't you, and what are you, widowed or divorced? Wedding ring's at least thirty years old and you've moved it to another finger. That means you're sentimentally attached to it but you're not still married. I favour widowed, given the number of cats you share your life with."

"Sherlock," Mary said, nerves creeping into her voice while she watched Vivian closely. It didn't seem like the smartest of ideas to antagonise a woman holding a pistol.

"Two Burmese and a tortoiseshell, judging by the cat hairs on your cardigan," he continued. "A divorcee's more likely to look for a new partner; a widow to fill the void left by her dead husband. Pets do that, or so I'm told, and there's clearly no-one new in your life, otherwise you wouldn't be spending your Friday nights in an aquarium. That probably accounts for the drink problem, too – the slight tremor in your hand, the red wine stain ghosting your top lip. So yes. I say jealousy was your motive after all – to prove how good you are, to make up for the inadequacies of your _little_ life."

As he spoke, Mycroft, Lestrade, and three police officers entered the room. There was no way out for Vivian Norbury.

"Maybe I _can_ still surprise you," she said.

It all happened so fast after that.

Vivian fired, Mary yelled and hurled herself in front of Sherlock. The bullet impacted her lower chest. Blood sprayed outward, staining her shirt. She cried out and fell to the floor against a nearby bench. Sherlock could only stare for a few seconds as he took in what happened, then dropped to his knees and put pressure on Mary's wound, shouting for someone to call an ambulance. Immediately.

" _Mary_!"

John raced to Mary's side and jammed his right hand against the wound, cradling the back of Mary's head with his other hand. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening.

"Mary," he said. "Mary, stay with me. Stay with me. Don't worry, come on, Mary, it's going to be fine." Words. Just words. They didn't stop the bleeding. "Mary, Mary, stay with me. Come on. Stay with me."

"I think this is it," Mary whispered. John shook his head. No, it wasn't it. It couldn't be it. They still had time. "You made me so happy. You gave me everything I could ever, ever want." She reached up to touch his face, making him promise he would look after Rosie before turning to Sherlock. "I really like you – did I ever say?" Her voice cracked, tears in her eyes. Sherlock nodded and pressed his lips together, blinking back tears. He couldn't cry. "And I love – I love Ellie, tell her I love her. You've got an amazing girl there, Sherlock. Look after her. And – I'm sorry for shooting you that time. I'm really sorry."

"It's alright," Sherlock said softly, trying to force a smile.

"I think we're even now, ok? I think we're even . . . definitely even." The words came harder, the pain got worse. It didn't stop Mary from smiling at John. "You . . . you were my whole world. Being Mary Watson –" She had to force the words out. "– was the only life worth living."

"Mary," John said. His breath shuddered with every tear running down his cheeks.

"Thank you," Mary choked out. Her head dropped against John's shoulder. He couldn't feel her breathing. No one moved as John pressed his fingers to the pulse point on Mary's neck, cradling her head and resting his chin on top of it while staring vacantly, desperately trying to find a flicker of a pulse. Just a weak one would do. He moved his head to stare into her blank, open eyes and lifted his blood-stained fingertips from the side of her neck as realisation dawned on him.

A howl escaped from John's throat, like a wounded animal. No words could articulately express the pain he felt as he clutched Mary's lifeless body closer to his.

Sherlock reached for his friend, but John's head shot up before he could make contact. There was murderous rage in John's eyes.

"Don't you dare," he hissed. "You made a vow. You _swore_ it."

He swore he would protect Mary. He swore he would keep her safe if she returned to London. Her blood was on Sherlock's hands.

* * *

"Hey, I thought John and Mary would be with you," was the first thing Elspeth said when Sherlock returned home. Sherlock didn't respond, dropping heavily into his armchair and staring vacantly at John's empty one. Elspeth frowned. "Are you ok, Dad? Where's John and Mary?"

"John," Sherlock said. It was the first time he'd spoken since he left the aquarium. He cleared his throat. "John is at the hospital."

"What? Why? Is he ok?" Elspeth demanded. Sherlock didn't answer. "Dad, what happened?"

"John's ok," Sherlock said.

"Ok, and Mary?" Elspeth watched Sherlock carefully, noticing the way he flinched when she mentioned Mary's name. There had been a lot of emphasis on John being ok; he hadn't even spoke about Mary since he arrived. Moving to sit in John's chair opposite him, Elspeth stared at Sherlock as an undeniable sense of dread filled her, forming a knot in her stomach. She couldn't stop the tears filling her eyes. "Where's Mary?"

"We –" Sherlock closed his eyes, ducking his head. "I couldn't save her."

"Dad," Elspeth said in a small voice. That was all she could manage before the tears started to fall, her body crumbling in on itself as she sobbed. Sherlock went to her immediately. It didn't matter that she was an adult or that she was far too big to be curled up on her father's lap she way she did when Sherlock embraced her. All that mattered was that they had each other because, in that moment, it seemed to both Sherlock and Elspeth that was all they had left.

* * *

 _Thank you boardwalkblue and Adrillian1497 for reviewing!_


	11. Chapter 11

_**11.**_

"Where are you going?"

Elspeth had fallen asleep on the sofa that night, roused by the sound of Sherlock walking past her while pulling his coat and scarf on. She sat and wiped her eyes, the skin beneath them rough and sore from where she had been crying all night. Sherlock had told her everything that happened the night before. Norbury, AGRA, Mary. It all made sense, and yet nothing could squash the pain Elspeth felt in her chest when she thought about Mary dying and in pain. She wished she could've been there. Elspeth couldn't even remember the last thing she said to Mary.

"Out," Sherlock said. "I have an appointment."

"What sort of appointment?"

"One I have to keep," Sherlock said. A few tears sprung to Elspeth's eyes and she blinked them away. Sherlock's brusque manner didn't upset her, but Elspeth still felt incredibly emotional from the previous night. She wondered when the feeling would go away; if it would ever go away. Noticing Elspeth's expression, Sherlock bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "I'll be back soon."

"Ok," Elspeth whispered. She listened to Sherlock walking down the steps, counting each one as he walked away.

* * *

Mycroft walked through to his kitchen, leaning his umbrella against the wall and putting his briefcase down on the table. It had been a long day of dealing with the aftermath of Mary Watson's death, including a teary voicemail from Elspeth, who admitted she didn't know why she'd even called him in the first place. Apparently Sherlock had been gone for several hours and Elspeth was feeling lonely, but after a brief conversation with her, Mycroft assured her that Sherlock would return soon. Mary's death had hit Elspeth harder than either Holmes brother anticipated. Mycroft had almost forgotten that Elspeth spent the time between Sherlock's apparent death and his return living under the same roof as John and Mary.

Rubbing the back of his neck to relieve some of the tension gathering, Mycroft opened his fridge door and sighed when he noticed it was empty. He couldn't remember the last time he'd filled the fridge. He usually kept it well stocked, but it seemed as though he started to neglect his needs in the past few weeks.

He closed the door, considering the take away menus pinned to the fridge with magnets. One of them was a homemade magnet Elspeth made in primary school. Mycroft took the menu from underneath that particular magnet, then looked at the post-it note with one thing written on it: "13th". Looking at the note for a long moment, Mycroft took his pocket watch out and checked the time. He couldn't put it off much longer. Mycroft turned to the phone, pressed a speed-dial number, and held the phone to his ear.

"Put me through to Sherrinford, please," he said. "Yes, I'll wait."

* * *

"Nothing will ever be the same again, will it?" Mrs Hudson asked tearfully, sitting in John's chair with a tissue in her hand. Elspeth sat on the floor and leaned against Sherlock's chair, staring mournfully at the deflated balloon John had once left in his place so he could make himself tea while Sherlock spoke to a client. "We'll have to rally round, I expect. Do our bit." Mrs Hudson broke down in tears again as she spoke. "Look after little Rosie."

"Just going to – um –" Sherlock stood up and looked around, uncertain what to do. He pointed at the small pile of letters next to his laptop. "Look through these things. There might be a case."

"A case?" Mrs Hudson repeated. Sherlock sat down at the table. "Oh. You're not up to it, are you?"

"Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Mrs Hudson."

"Yes, yes, I expect you're right. I'll make some tea, shall I?" Mrs Hudson offered, rising to her feet and making her way to the kitchen. Elspeth just sat and stared into space, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said before she could leave. He half glanced in her direction, then realised it was easier to keep looking at his laptop so he wouldn't have to meet her eyes. "If you ever think I'm becoming a bit –" He paused. "– full of myself, cocky or . . . overconfident –" He took in a deep breath, then turned in his seat to face her fully. "Would you just say the word 'Norbury' to me? Just that. I'd be very grateful." Mrs Hudson nodded. Elspeth closed her eyes. Turning back to his laptop, Sherlock found a padded envelope amongst the pile next to him. "What's this?"

"Oh, I brought that up," Mrs Hudson said. "It was mixed up with my things."

Sherlock opened the envelope, pulling out a DVD with two words written across the disc: MISS ME?

Neither Mrs Hudson nor Sherlock noticed Elspeth rise to her feet and leave Baker Street.

"Oh god. Is that . . .?"

"Must be," Sherlock said, recognising the catchphrase immediately. It was hardly subtle. "I knew it wouldn't end like this. I knew Moriarty made plans." He loaded the disc onto the laptop and waited, expecting Moriarty's face to come up on the screen. But it wasn't. Instead, Mary smiled at him through the camera, that old familiar smile she would wear whenever she was teasing John or Sherlock.

"Thought that would get your attention," she said. Sherlock leaned back in his seat, feeling his heart drop. He had been so certain. "So, this is in case . . ." Mary grimaced. "In case the day comes. If you are watching this, I'm probably dead. I hope I can have an ordinary life, but who knows? Nothing's certain, nothing's written. My old life – it was full of consequences." A brief smile flickered across Mary's face. "The danger was the fun part, but you can't outrun that forever. You need to remember that, so . . . I'm giving you a case, Sherlock. Might be the hardest case of your career. When I'm gone – if I'm gone – I need you to do something for me. Save John Watson. Save him, Sherlock. Save him."

* * *

Time moved weirdly when someone close to you died. For Elspeth, it felt like time slowed down and almost came to a halt. The seconds dragged by even as the world around her carried on at normal speed, people going about their business as though they didn't have a care in the world. People were selfish. No one really wanted to stop the young woman wandering through the streets with a vacant look in her eyes, wearing the same clothes for three days in a row, to ask if she was alright. Elspeth remembered feeling like that when she thought Sherlock was dead, and she remembered feeling like she could turn to only one person. She didn't even know if he would want to see her.

Elspeth reached John's front door and knocked, feeling like she was on autopilot. She waited. For a moment, she didn't think John would answer. She was getting ready to turn away when the door opened and she found herself staring at Molly, who looked like she was getting ready to leave with Rosie in the buggy.

"Ellie," Molly breathed out. Her eyes widened. "What are you –"

"John," Elspeth said. She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Is – is John here?"

Molly looked over her shoulder. "John . . . isn't in a good place right now, I don't think he wants to see anyone," she said with a hint of apology in her voice. Elspeth nodded. She knew what Molly meant; John didn't want to see her. He probably wouldn't want to see Sherlock either. "I'm about to go to the park with Rosie – you're more than welcome to come along, if you like. I know Rosie would love spending time with you."

"Yeah," Elspeth choked out. "Yeah, I'd like that."

They walked in comfortable silence, Molly navigating the buggy through the streets while Rosie gurgled and chewed on her own fist. When they reached the park, they found a quiet spot on a bench overlooking the playground. Elspeth took hold of the buggy then, gently pushing it back and forth as she always did whenever she took Rosie for a walk. Even if it didn't rock her to sleep, the motion kept Rosie calm. For a long time, all Elspeth could do was stare at Rosie and think, wondering what her life would be like without her mother in it. John would cope. John would be a good father; a great one. He just needed to grieve.

"Are you ok?" Molly asked timidly. Elspeth looked up at her. "Sorry, that was a really stupid question, wasn't it? Of course you're not ok." Molly sighed. "How are you coping? And Sherlock?"

"Dad's throwing himself back into work, Mrs Hudson's crying a lot but she'll be there for whoever needs her," Elspeth said. "And I . . ." It was Elspeth's turn to sigh. She ran her hands through her hair, then rested one arm on the handle of Rosie's buggy and gave Molly a smile that didn't reach her eyes. They said it was easier to open up to a stranger, but looking into Molly's kind eyes and knowing she wasn't going to pass judgement on Elspeth made her the easier option to talk to. "I feel like my whole world is falling apart, and has been since – well, since that damn video came out."

Molly frowned in concern. "Have you spoken to Sherlock about how you feel?"

"Have you seen my Dad recently?" Elspeth retorted. "It's impossible to get a minute alone with him these days, and even if you do, he's so wired up on the latest case he doesn't pay attention to anyone. Honestly, I think everyone's biggest concern is Rosie."

"Well, she has just lost her mum," Molly said.

"I don't have a mum, and I turned out just fine," Elspeth said.

Molly gave her a dubious look, then regretted it immediately. "I'm sorry – I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it like that," she blurted out. "It's just you and Rosie have gone through very different experiences, and you're a lot older than she is and –"

"And my mum is still alive," Elspeth finished. "She doesn't care about me though, and Rosie is going to grow up not knowing who her mum is. Or was. Rosie won't have any memories of her, won't know what Mary was like or who she really was. We're the ones who will remember."

Elspeth didn't realise she was crying until Molly wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held her close. They didn't move for a long time.

* * *

A few days later, Sherlock found himself standing outside the front door of John Watson's home. He'd knocked and waited, expecting his friend to open the door and taken aback when Molly did so instead, holding Rosie in both of her arms. She paused, then stepped out to the porch and shut the door behind her, like she didn't want John to realise Sherlock was there.

"Hi," she said softly.

"I just wondered how things were going," Sherlock said. Elspeth barely left her room. Mrs Hudson spent most of her days tearing up or focusing on taking care of Sherlock and Elspeth, making them dinners that neither of them would eat and cups of tea that were left to get cold. Sherlock was beginning to feel rather useless, and decided the best way to change that would to be finally face John Watson. "And if there was anything I could do."

Molly ducked her head, then reached into the pocket of her trousers and held out an envelope. "It's – uh . . . it's from John," she said. Sherlock took the envelope. "You don't need to read it now." She paused. Her arms tightened around Rosie. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. He says . . . John said if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted.

"He . . . said he'd – that he'd rather have anyone but you," Molly said reluctantly. "Anyone."

Sherlock blinked, pressing his lips together. Molly looked at Rosie, unable to hide the tears in her eyes for much longer, and went back indoors. She closed the door behind her. Sherlock stared at it, thinking about what Molly had just told him and everything it meant for his and John's friendship, then tucked the envelope into his coat pocket as he walked away. Anyone but him. John wanted anyone but him. He thought about John's refusal to see him and Elspeth locking herself in her bedroom, only emerging to use the bathroom before returning upstairs without so much as a single word. Sherlock never thought a death could hit them as hard as it had. He wondered if this was what it was like when they all thought he was dead. He thought about the story of Death in Samarra; could Samarra be avoided all together?

He found himself walking along Southbank by the Thames, stopping to look out at the river. Mary had given him clear instructions in her last DVD, and he'd been thinking about them ever since. Go to Hell.

"Go to Hell, Sherlock," Mary had said to him.

Sherlock repeated the words over and over in his mind, considering every option, thinking about all the people around him it would hurt. People were going to get hurt regardless of his choice, himself included. None of it was going to be easy, but if it meant saving the people he loved the most, Sherlock knew what he had to do. Taking his phone from his pocket and dialling a number he hadn't called in years, Sherlock walked straight into the mouth of Hell.


	12. Chapter 12

_**12.**_

"Mr Smith? Whenever you're ready."

Culverton Smith nodded and glanced at the people sitting at the table in front of him, including his own daughter, Faith. He gave Cornelia, his assistant, the cue and she spoke into her headset. Moments later, the door at the end of the corridor opened and several nurses – all clad in white uniforms, caps, gloves, and masks over their mouths and noses – wheeling drug stands beside them walked through.

"It's difficult having such good friends," Culverton said, standing at the end of the table. "Friends are people you want to share with. Friends and family." He strolled around the table, pausing when he reached Faith and putting both hands on her shoulders. "What's the very worst thing you can do to your very best friends?" He patted her shoulder, stroking her hair affectionately and smiling when she tilted her head back to grin at him.

"Something on your mind?" the man on Faith's right asked. "Whatever you tell us stays in this room. I think I speak for everyone."

"Of course," Faith said. "Well? What is the worst thing you could do?"

Culverton drew in a deep breath before continuing. "Tell them your darkest secret," he said. "Because if you tell them and they decide they'd rather not know, you can't take it back. You can't unsay it. Once you've opened your heart, you can't close it again." His friends and Faith looked at him in silence, and after a second, Culverton laughed raucously. The others joined in. "I'm kidding! Of course you can." The nurses walked into the room, each one standing by Culverton's guests. "Well, everyone, please roll up your right sleeves. It's a bit of insurance."

Faith looked at the nearest drug stand, frowning. "I don't understand, what it that?"

"TD12," Ivan said. "One of ours. We make it – my company – TD12. Sells mainly to dentists and hospitals for minor surgical procedures, interferes with the memory. I didn't exactly know who you were going to be using it on," he added, glancing at Culverton.

"Is everyone ready?" Culverton asked, ignoring Faith's quiet insistence that she wasn't. "Please, roll up your sleeves. Come on – roll up!" While the other members of the meeting rolled their sleeves up, Faith stayed still and stared at her father as he approached her, turning her chair so she was facing him. "All I'm doing, Faith, dear, is getting something off my chest without getting it on yours." He unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse, rolling it up. "What you're about to hear may horrify you, but you will forget it. If you think about it, civilisation has always depended on a measure of elective ignorance. These drip feeds will keep the drug in your bloodstreams at exactly the right levels. Nothing that is happening to you now will stay with you for more than a few minutes. I'm afraid that some of the memories you've had up to this point might also be corrupted."

It was an unfortunate side effect of the drug, but a necessary one. Culverton watched the nurse attach the drip to Faith's arm and waited until everyone looked suitably drowsy, knowing the drug was beginning to take effect.

"I'm going to share something with you now," he continued. "Something personal and of importance to me." He stood up. "I have a need to confess, but you – I think – might have a need to forget. By the end of this, you'll be free to go. And don't worry, by the time you're back in the outside world, you will not remember any of what you've heard."

"Ignorance is bliss," Faith murmured.

"What's wrong with bliss?" Culverton asked. He took slow, deliberate steps around the table. "Some of you know each other and some of you don't. Please be aware that one of you is a high-ranking police officer. One of you is a member of the judiciary. One of you sits on the board of a prominent broadcaster. Two of you work for me and one of you, of course, is my lovely daughter, Faith." Pausing behind his daughter, Culverton rubbed the back of her head with a little more force than necessary. "You are the people I need to hear me. I have made millions, for myself, for the people round this table, for millions of people I've never even met. If life is a balance sheet – and I think it is – well, I believe I'm in credit! But I have a problem, and there is only way I can solve it."

"What's that?" Faith asked drowsily.

Culverton put his hands on the table. "I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I need to kill someone."

Later that evening, Faith sat at her desk with a blank notepad, running a hand over her face as she struggled to remember everything her father had told her. She could recall bits and pieces, but nothing for certain. She'd stumbled into the room, leaning on her cane, and struggled to pick up her fountain pen. There was a small plaster on her right arm just below her elbow. Faith couldn't remember why it was there.

Forcing her hand onto the notepad, Faith scribbled two words: "police officer". She didn't know why they stuck in her mind, but she felt compelled to write them down. Another sprung to her mind – "judge" – and then a third; "broadcaster".

A drop of blood fell onto the paper. Faith struggled to turn her hand over and looked at the base of her little finger, realising she'd pricked it against the nib of the fountain pen. She didn't attempt to stop the bleeding, though, as she wrote "me" next to the stain. The blood smeared when her hand dragged across the paper. Her head hurt. It hurt so much. She could barely see straight but still Faith struggled to remember, gritting her teeth and writing the next phrase that stuck in her mind: "need to kill". Need to kill. It repeated itself over and over and all Faith could add was "someone".

Who? Needed to kill _who_?

"Faith," Culverton said, standing in the doorway of Faith's office. He walked in and Faith stared at him tearfully, shaking her head. "My dear, dear child."

"I can't remember," she sobbed. "Can't remember who you're going to kill."

She thought he was tsk and tell her she was being an idiot, that he had no intention of killing anyone at all, but instead Culverton wrapped is arm around her and pulled her to his chest comfortingly.

"Dear, in five minutes you won't even remember why you were crying," he told her. "The others are all fine. You know, they've gone down the pub." Culverton stroked her hair. "It's all on me." He chuckled; he could spare whatever money they spent on drinks. He was almost disappointed Faith declined the invitation. Reaching out, he took the piece of paper Faith had been writing on and read it. "Oh Faith, don't you think I should take that? It's only going to upset you."

It was three years before Faith told anyone about that night.

* * *

"Bill," Elspeth said in surprise, opening the living room door and smiling when she saw her friend on the sofa. It was comforting to see a familiar face after Mary's death, especially since she'd lost count of the days since she passed. The screen doors of the kitchen were shut and Bill shifted awkwardly from side to side when he looked at Elspeth, not as pleased to see as she was him. She'd been in her room most of the morning, not even noticing Bill knocking on the front door earlier. She curled up on the sofa next to Bill and frowned when he moved to put more space between them. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh," Bill said, his eyes darting towards the screen doors of the kitchen. They'd been pulled shut, which was ever a good sign. Sherlock only ever pulled them shut when he was doing something he shouldn't. "I just 'ad to . . . drop something off. For Sherlock. 'E said it was kinda urgent."

"What sort of stuff?" Elspeth asked. He didn't answer. She straightened up. "Bill, what sort of stuff?"

Just as he was going to answer, the screen doors of the kitchen burst open and Sherlock marched out with a very determined look on his face, but Elspeth couldn't think what he would have to be determined about. He sniffed, then realised Bill wasn't alone and regarded Elspeth for a few seconds before giving her a pleasant smile. It was too pleasant. Almost dopey. Like Sherlock wasn't quite lucid. She had never seen him like that before, but Elspeth recognised the behaviour from the few times she'd been in the squat with Bill. Her heart sunk. It had been one thing when she did it, but Sherlock was another story all together.

"Ellie," Sherlock said cheerfully. Too cheerfully. Elspeth shot Bill an accusatory look, but he refused to meet her eyes. "Hello Ellie, when did you get here? No – never mind – upstairs! You were upstairs, weren't you? Your room is upstairs."

"Are you high?" Elspeth demanded.

Sherlock deliberated the question for a second and shrugged, waltzing back into the kitchen with the grace of a toddler learning to walk. Elspeth stared after him, turning and punching Bill hard in the arm.

"Ow! What the 'ell was _that_ for?"

"You know very well what for," Elspeth hissed. She uncurled her legs from beneath her and moved closer, grabbing his sleeve so Bill couldn't scarper off when she noticed him eyeing the living room door. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing, giving him drugs? He's an _addict_. He has been clean for years and you just come in here and supply him with drugs!"

"You weren't complaining when I was giving 'em to you," Bill grumbled. Elspeth punched him again. "What the – you gotta stop doing that, Els, you're gonna leave bruises."

"Next time it'll be your face," Elspeth swore. She let go of Bill and glared at him furiously, feeling her entire body tremble with the anger bubbling up inside her. "I thought you were better than that, Bill. I thought you were my friend." She felt her voice begin to tremble, tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks. Instantly, Elspeth's expression hardened and she let go of Bill's sleeve, throwing his arm away like his very presence disgusted her. "Get out. Now." Bill began to protest, saying he needed to stick around for Sherlock, but Elspeth fixed him with a cold stare and said, "Get out before I throw you out. _Now_."

Realising she was seconds from dragging him out onto the street, Bill scrambled up from the sofa and left. Elspeth waited by the window to make sure he was definitely gone before following Sherlock into the kitchen, the screen door slamming as she pushed it out of her way. Sherlock was completely oblivious to her anger, rooting through the fridge.

"So what? Is this it? Mary dies, John doesn't see you, you start using again," Elspeth said. Sherlock ignored her. Spotting the small plastic bag left on the table – it could easily be concealed in someone's palm, transferred from one hand to another – Elspeth stepped closer and picked it up. That got Sherlock's attention.

"Don't touch that," he said, whirling around and kicking the fridge door shut behind him.

"Why? Afraid I'm going to pour it down the sink or something? Because that's exactly what I'm going to do," Elspeth told him, striding across the kitchen to the sink. She didn't even get the water running before Sherlock was on her, wrestling the drugs out of her hand and shoving her to one side as he pocketed it, glaring at her like a cornered animal. Elspeth had never seen that side to Sherlock before. Her hand stung; she realised Sherlock scratched her in the struggle. "Look at what you've done. You've made me bleed."

"Oh boo hoo," Sherlock sneered. He walked past her.

"Boo hoo," Elspeth repeated. She chased after Sherlock. "No – no, you don't get to do this, Dad. You don't get to fall apart and start using and hurt everyone else just because you're hurting. We're not going to run around and look after you just because you're too self-absorbed to realise you're not the only one grieving a friend."

"Shut up, Ellie," Sherlock said, turning to face her with an annoyed expression. It was the expression he wore when talking to a particularly stupid client, but never when he spoke to her. Elspeth stopped and stared up at him. "You think that because you're the child you get to stamp your feet and throw a tantrum and have everyone look after you, but you're an even bigger liability than I am. You don't do anything right, you just . . ." Sherlock made a vague hand gesture, shrugging. "Get in the way. And cry. You cry a lot – look, you're about to do it right now. You're a hypocrite, Ellie, because you –" Sherlock swaggered close and stuck his finger in Elspeth's face. "– fall apart every single time something goes wrong. If anyone is self-absorbed, it's you."

"You promised," Elspeth said through gritted teeth, clenching her fists as she found herself struggling not to cry. "You promised you wouldn't do this again, you said you wouldn't leave me again."

"Well if you don't like it, Ellie, there's the door." Sherlock waved his hand to the living room door before turning and flopping on the sofa, turning his back on her to indicate the conversation was over. Left without much choice, Elspeth nodded once and strode out of her room. It didn't take long for her to pack a suitcase and bring it downstairs, pausing only to let Mrs Hudson what sort of a state Sherlock was in. It was fair she was warned.

Halfway down the street from 221B, Elspeth took her phone from her pocket and dialled the only number she could think of. "Hey, it's me . . . uh, can I come stay with you for a little bit? Dad's kicked me out and I –" Her voice cracked. "– don't have anywhere else to go." She paused, relieved when she heard the answer. "Thank you. No, you don't need to send a car, I'll get the train."

She dragged her suitcase to the nearest underground station, standing amongst the crowd and pretending she was just another person going about their business. Elspeth wasn't the only one with a suitcase; a couple of students were further down the platform with matching luggage. She briefly wondered if they were returning home from university. Stepping on the train, Elspeth declined the offer of someone helping with her suitcase and stood in the centre of the carriage, one hand on her suitcase and the other on the pole. It wasn't until the train pulled away from the station that Elspeth allowed herself to cry.

* * *

 _Thank you Sophie for reviewing! Please let me know what you think, I'm really looking forwards to getting into The Lying Detective!_


	13. Chapter 13

_**13.**_

"Three years ago, my father told me he wanted to kill someone," Faith Smith said, facing the window of 221B. Since Elspeth's departure, it had fallen into a state of despair and not even the lamps could lighten up the dark atmosphere. Sherlock slumped in his chair, dressed but wearing a dressing gown over his clothes, and held the sheet of paper Faith had brought with her. His hands trembled slightly, his face was unshaved, and his hair hadn't been washed for several days. "One word, Mr Holmes, and it changed my world forever. Just one word."

"What word?" Sherlock asked, the first time he'd spoken since Faith started to explain her situation.

"A name," Faith said. She turned to face him while he played on his phone, then walked across the room to sit on the chair used for clients facing the fireplace, clutching her cane in front of her. "I can't remember, though. I can't remember who my father wanted to kill, and I don't know if he ever did."

"Well, you've changed," Sherlock said, holding his phone up to look at a photograph of Faith and her father smiling at the camera. He felt a pang of guilt when he thought about Elspeth and the photos they'd taken together, thinking about the box he'd swept them into after she left. He didn't want constant reminders on show. "You no longer top up your tan and your roots are showing. Letting yourself go?"

"Do you ever look in the mirror and want to see someone else?" Faith asked.

"No. Do you own an American car? No – not American," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and waving a hand. "Left hand drive, that's what I mean. Not sure why I ask. Probably just noticed something." He looked at Faith closely, narrowing his eyes when he saw the straight line of dirt along the bottom of her skirt and struggling to focus. Sherlock blinked. His hand trembled and Sherlock clenched it into a tight fist, then stretched his fingers out once more. They continued to tremble. "Oh, of course you don't own a car. You don't need one, do you, living in isolation, no human contact, no visitors."

Faith looked at Sherlock nervously, fiddling with her necklace. "How do you know that?"

"It's all here, isn't it? Look," Sherlock said, brandishing the paper. He stopped for a second when he realised Faith bit her bottom lip like Elspeth did when she was uncertain. "Cost cutting's clearly a priority for you, look at the size of your kitchen – teeny-tiny." Sherlock rose to his feet and walked past Faith, towards the window. "Must be a bit annoying when you're such a keen cook. Hang on a minute." He frowned. "I was looking out of the window. Why was I doing that?"

"I don't know," Faith said, watching him with a frown of her own. She heard Sherlock Holmes was slightly eccentric; no one told her he was absolutely mad.

"Me either. Must have had a reason. It'll come back to me." Sherlock shook his head and slumped heavily in his chair, a spoon and used syringe rattling on the table beside him. "Presumably you downsized when you . . ." He struggled to find the words. "When you left your job, and maybe when you ended your relationship. There wasn't anything physical going on, was there? Quite some time, in fact." He ran his fingers along the fold of the paper, waving it at Faith. "There, see? It's obvious."

"You can't tell things like that from a piece of paper," Faith said. Her voice trembled, her face crumbling with hurt. She was upset. Elspeth was better with clients when they got upset.

"Think I just did, didn't I? I'm sure that was me." Sherlock sniffed. "Dunno how I did it. Just sort of . . . happens, really. It's like a reflex. I can't stop it." He looked across at Faith, doing a double take when he noticed the wet patch on the right shoulder of her dress. Damp. Her shoulders and her hair were damp. Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and touched his fingers to her shoulder, oblivious to the way Faith flinched away from him. "Coat."

"I don't have a coat," Faith pointed out.

"Yeah, that's what I noticed," Sherlock said, heading towards the screen doors of the kitchen. "I wonder why?"

"Who you talkin' to?" Bill asked, sliding the door open and looking through to the living room.

"Piss off." Sherlock pushed the door closed.

"So what do you think?" Faith asked. "Of my case?"

"Oh, it's way too weird for me. Go to the police, they're really excellent at dealing with this complicated sort of stuff," Sherlock said. "Tell them I sent you, that ought to get a reaction. Night night." He tossed her handbag towards her, noticing it felt heavier than the average bag usually did. Faith caught it, pleading for him to help her. She had no one else to turn to. "I'm very busy at the moment, I have to drink a cup of tea."

"Is 'cup of tea' code?" Bill asked when Sherlock joined him in the kitchen. The entire kitchen had been transformed into a small drug den, a clear plastic tent hanging from the ceiling around the sink and empty syringes littering the table. "Because I thought you might prefer some 'coffee'."

Sherlock shot him a dark look, going to shut the kitchen doors. Faith was still in the living room. "You're my last hope," she told him.

"Really? That's bad luck, isn't it? Goodnight, go away," Sherlock said, sliding the doors closed.

"What's bad luck?" Bill was asking a lot of questions; it made Sherlock aware of his existence. "I always 'ave bad luck. It's congenital. That's not rude. Congenital, it just means –"

"Handbag!" Sherlock cried, opening the kitchen doors and noticing Faith had already left. "Stop – wait!" He half ran, half fell, down the stairs after her, catching her before she could step out into the torrential rain. "Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it, do you hear me? Off it. _Off_ it. Your skirt – look at the hem of it! That's what I noticed. I'm . . ." Sherlock ran a hand down his face. "Still catching up with my brain, it's terribly fast. Those markings, do you see them?" He pointed to the bottom of her dress. "You only get marks like that by trapping the hem of your skirt in a car door but they're on the left-hand side, so you weren't driving, you were in the passenger seat."

"I came in a taxi," Faith said.

"There is no taxi waiting in the street outside. That's what I checked when I went to the window," Sherlock continued. "And you've got all the way to the door and not made any move to phone for one, and look at you. You didn't even bring a coat – in this rain? Now, well, that might mean nothing, except for the angle of the scars on your left forearm. You know, under that sleeve you keep pulling down."

Faith reached across and pulled her left sleeve down. "You never saw them."

"No, I didn't, so thank you for confirming my hypothesis," Sherlock said. "Don't really need check that the angle's consistent with self-harm, do I?" Faith shook her head. "Then you can keep your scars, I want to see your handbag. It's too heavy. You said I was your last hope and now you're going out into the night with no plan on how you're getting home and a gun."

Lowering her head, Faith didn't deny Sherlock's observations. Sherlock focused on her walking cane and remembered John's cane, how he had been so dependent on it until that night. Sherlock shook his head unhappily.

"Chips," he said.

"Chips?"

Sherlock took a coat from one of the hooks and handed it to Faith. "You're suicidal. You're allowed chips, trust me. It's about the only perk."

* * *

"Can I have a portion of chips, please?"

Elspeth stood at the open-all-night burger stand and waited for her chips, her hood pulled up to protect her from the rain. Mycroft had been kind enough to let her stay in the spare room since she left home, but he was a man used to living on his own; there was scarcely enough food for Mycroft, let alone Elspeth as well. If he wasn't ordering a take away, Mycroft was out fine-dining with the highest members of society. That particular night, he was dining with the Prime Minister, leaving Elspeth to fend for herself.

"We have _got_ to stop meeting like this," Moriarty drawled, standing behind Elspeth with an umbrella in his hand. She glanced at him over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, leaning against the shelf of the burger stand with her head in her arms. "Oh come on now, Ellie, don't be like that."

"Just leave me alone and let me get my chips," Elspeth grumbled. She wasn't in the mood for teasing.

"You should've texted me," Moriarty said. "I could take you out to one of the finest restaurants in London."

Elspeth gave him a sullen look. "Do I really look like I want to spend the evening in one of the finest restaurants in London?"

"You look like a drowned rat," Moriarty said with a grimace. Elspeth looked away, torn between laughing and slapping him, and accepted the portion of chips handed to her. She covered them in salt, took a plastic fork from the pot, and brushed past Moriarty without so much as a second glance. He smirked, watching her dart from the shelter of the burger van to under a bus stop, where she sat on the bench with her dinner on her lap. Whistling mindlessly, Moriarty strolled over. "Does Sherlock know you're out here, all on your own?"

"Nope." Elspeth took a vicious bite from a chip. "And he probably doesn't care, either. I don't care that he doesn't care. I don't care about him at all, he can take drugs and shut himself away and throw me out of Baker Street and I – I don't care. At all." She swallowed and stared in front of her, feeling Moriarty's eyes drilling into her but refusing to look his way. "I don't care. At all. Maybe I'll leave London, who knows? I don't have anyone holding me back anymore, my family don't care, I don't have any friends, no one would notice or care that I'm gone." Elspeth ducked her head for a moment, blinking back tears. "I don't care."

"I can tell," Moriarty commented. He watched Elspeth compose herself and waited, wondering if she would crack under the pressure of it all. He was pleasantly surprised when she straightened up with her head held high, staring ahead of her with the kind of dignity only a Holmes possessed. "So Sherlock is back on the drugs?"

Elspeth sighed. "I shouldn't have told you that. Now you're going to start messing with him, aren't you?"

"Please, as if I would do something so trivial," Moriarty said. "I prefer my opponents to be at their best wits, not struggling to form a coherent thought because their mind is riddled with narcotics."

"Even so, you better leave him alone," Elspeth said. "He's acting like a prick right now, but he's still my Dad and he's vulnerable."

Moriarty plucked a chip from Elspeth's lap and she glowered at him. "What drove the great detective back to drugs, then?"

"You really don't know?" she asked, staring at Moriarty with wide eyes. He gazed back at her with an unfathomable expression, leaning back with no indication he did know the reason for Sherlock's behaviour. Elspeth had expected him to know; it seemed like he knew everything. For a moment, she hesitated to tell him, unwilling to let Moriarty in on her private grief for a family friend. Realising there was no one else to talk to, Elspeth decided to let her walls down as she said, "Mary died. A few weeks ago, she was . . . well, she was shot. I don't know what happened, I wasn't there, but she died."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Moriarty said, taking Elspeth by surprise. "She was a good shot. Waste of talent."

"And there was me thinking you were being a decent human being for once," Elspeth said. She stretched her legs out in front of her and watched the rain fall, listening to it hit the roof of the shelter. It would've been peaceful if Moriarty wasn't sitting next to her. Elspeth was half tempted to ask him what he was doing there, or how he even found her, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. "Did you really not know?"

"I don't keep track of every life event revolving around your entourage," Moriarty scoffed.

"I think the word you're looking for is family," Elspeth said. She took her phone out her coat pocket and frowned. "None of whom have bothered to text me to ask where I am." She sighed. "My Dad is on drugs, my uncle is having dinner with the Prime Minister, and I'm sitting with one of the world's most dangerous criminals eating chips. What has my life come to?"

"Amateur dramatics, apparently," Moriarty muttered. Elspeth laughed for the first time since Mary's death, ducking her head to hide her smile. "Since when did Ellie Holmes sit around and whine about how terrible her life is?" He rolled his eyes. "That's not the Ellie I know."

"You hardly know me at all."

Moriarty made a noise under his breath and Elspeth looked up at him, noticing his impenetrable stare focused on her. His eyes travelled over her face, taking in every small detail, focusing on the slight crease of her forehead when she frowned. She did that when she was thinking. Finally meeting her eyes, Moriarty and Elspeth regarded each other for a long moment, neither one of them blinking as they gazed in silence. It wasn't a romantic moment, nor was it a threatening one. Instead, a silent understanding formed between Moriarty and Elspeth as they watched one another, almost sizing the other up like predators preparing for conflict.

It was Moriarty who broke eye contact first, turning away as he rose to his feet and opened his umbrella. He didn't say goodbye to her when he walked away; he didn't need to. Elspeth watched him stroll into the evening, counting every step until Moriarty disappeared from sight completely.

* * *

 _Thank you Adrillian1497 and boardwalkblue for reviewing!_


	14. Chapter 14

_**14.**_

"You see the fold in the middle?" Sherlock asked, sitting beside Faith under a covered bus stop and looking closely at the paper she'd brought with her. The rain was beginning to ease up. "For the first few months you kept this hidden, folded inside a book. Must have been a tightly packed shelf, going by the severity of the crease, so you obviously were keeping it hidden from someone living in the same house at a level of intimacy where privacy could not be assumed. Conclusion: relationship."

Faith grimaced and bit into a chip, watching Sherlock carefully. He glanced at her, not used to such avid attention; he was used to John's sarcastic comments and Elspeth's constant interjections as ideas came to her mind.

"Not any more, though," Sherlock continued. There's a pinprick at the top of the paper. For the past few months it's been on open display on a wall. Conclusion: relationship is over. The paper's been exposed to steam and a variety of cooking smells, so it must have been on display in the kitchen." He sniffed the paper. "Lots of different spices. You're suicidal, alone and strapped for cash, yet you're still cooking to impress. You're keen, then. The kitchen is the most public room in any house, but since any visitor could be expected to ask about a note like this, I have to assume you don't have any. You've isolated yourself."

"Amazing," Faith said.

"I know."

"I meant the chips."

Sherlock snorted, the comment making him think of Elspeth. His laughter died down. He lifted his head at the sound of an approaching helicopter, standing up and walking further into the street as the helicopter flew closer. The camera was pointed directly at Sherlock. He knew exactly who it was.

"Let's go for a walk," he said.

Either Faith didn't notice the helicopter or simply chose to ignore it as she stood up, looping her hand into the crook of Sherlock's elbow. It was a familiar gesture, as though they had known each other their whole lives rather than they'd just met that evening, but Sherlock didn't feel the urge to shake her off. The rain had cleared up entirely.

"How did you know my kitchen was tiny?" Faith asked.

"Look at the fading pattern on the paper. It's not much but it's enough to know your kitchen window faces east. Now kitchen noticeboards, by instinct, are placed at eye level where there's natural light. The sun's only struck the bottom two thirds, but the line is straight so that means we know the paper is facing the window. But because the top section is unaffected, we know the sunlight can only be entering the room at a steep angle. If the sunlight was able to penetrate the room where the sun was lower in the sky, then the paper would be equally faded top to bottom." Sherlock paused for a moment. "But no. It only makes it when the sun is at its zenith, so I'm betting that you live in a narrow street on the ground floor. Now, if steeply angled sunlight manages to hit eye level on the wall opposite the window, then what do we know about the room? The room is small."

Faith smiled at Sherlock, then looked up as a helicopter spotlight shining down on them. "Oh," she said. "Big Brother is watching you."

"Literally."

* * *

Mycroft stood in the surveillance room with a grim expression, Lady Smallwood watching the footage from the computer. He'd been with the Prime Minister when she called him to inform him that both his brother and niece were wandering the streets of London in the middle of the night. Sherlock seemed to have found himself a companion – a client of some kind, he assumed – but Elspeth walked on her own, something that worried Mycroft mildly. Lady Smallwood suggested it was the grief that made them act so oddly, but Mycroft scoffed at such a human notion.

Suddenly, several agents started to laugh.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked. "What now?"

"Sorry," an agent said hastily. "Um – we traced his route on the map."

Mycroft and Lady Smallwood looked at the street map on the computer screen, which marked Sherlock's route across London. There were gaps between the red lines where he'd disappeared from the surveillance, spelling out a vulgar message; it was clearly directed at Mycroft.

"Very mature, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered. "And my niece?"

The agent grinned from ear to ear as he brought up a series of photos of Elspeth taken from various angles, all of which featured her sticking up either one or both of her middle fingers at the camera.

"You're driving them towards each other," Lady Smallwood said, tracing both their routes on the maps. The helicopters had followed them in such a way they were heading towards each other in an attempt to avoid the cameras. "Why?"

"If they won't willingly talk to each other, I have to intervene. This is the only way," Mycroft said, dialling a number on his phone. "John."

"I'm trying to sleep. Can you stop ringing my damn phone?"

"Sherlock has left his flat for the first time in a week, so I'm having him tracked. Elspeth too."

"Nice," John said. "It's very touching how you can hijack the machinery of the state to look after your own family. Can I go to sleep now?"

"Sherlock gone rogue is a legitimate security concern, and Elspeth wandering the streets in the middle of the night is yet another cause for concern. The fact that they're family changes absolutely nothing," Mycroft said. "It didn't the last time and I assure you it won't with –" He paused for a long moment, realising he'd come close to revealing something John Watson didn't need to know. "With Sherlock or Elspeth."

"Sorry, what?"

"Please phone me if either of them get in contact."

"Do you still speak to Sherrinford?" Lady Smallwood asked when Mycroft lowered the phone.

"I get regular updates," he said. "Sherrinford is secure."

* * *

"Are we going to walk all night?"

"Possibly," Sherlock said. "It's a long word."

Faith looked up at him. "What is?"

"Bollocks."

She laughed and Sherlock smiled at her, the two of them continuing to walk so he could spell out his next message to Mycroft. Though she walked with a slight limp and relied on her cane, Faith didn't complain once; it made a nice change from John and Elspeth's constant nagging that they were tired. She was a surprisingly good companion, even if she did have the odd notion that Sherlock was sweet. It was as Sherlock told her, though. He wasn't sweet, just high.

"So," Faith said casually, finishing her can of energy drink they bought from a corner shop. Sherlock had never seen the appeal of them to begin with, but there was a period of time when Elspeth was in college and that was all she drank. "Have you got any family, Mr Holmes?"

"Everyone has family," Sherlock said. "In some form. You have your father, I have . . ." He frowned. "My family."

"Any brothers, sisters?"

"Older brother," Sherlock said, gesturing upwards. "An overprotective, incredibly invasive older brother."

"You must be close for him to be so concerned about you," Faith remarked, glancing up. She smiled a little to herself, an odd smile that Sherlock couldn't quite understand. There was no indication she had any brothers or sisters herself, and she hadn't mentioned any family other than Culverton Smith. "Must be nice knowing there's someone always looking out for you."

"I'd prefer it if he kept his nose out of my business," Sherlock said.

"Hence the messages?"

"Hence the messages," he agreed, grinning at her. "It's easier this way. You want another drink?" Sherlock offered, noticing a twenty-four-hour outdoor coffee stall. He fancied tea and Mrs Hudson wasn't there to make it for him.

Faith declined, watching Sherlock pay for the tea. She glanced inside his wallet when he took it out his pocket and opened it, her eyes resting on the passport sized photo behind the clear square of plastic. It was of a young girl with unruly hair, hazel eyes, and a toothy grin aimed directly at the camera.

"Who's that?" Faith asked. Sherlock didn't answer, however, as he lifted his head and noticed Elspeth walking on the opposite side of the street. He almost didn't recognise her at first; her hood was up and her head was ducked. When he realised it was her, he thrust the money at the barista and excused himself for a second, running onto the road without so much as a glance for oncoming traffic. It was late and there weren't many cars out anyway.

"Ellie," he called. "Ellie, wait."

Elspeth stopped – Sherlock almost thought she wouldn't – and turned around, not bothering to hide the displeasure in her face when she saw him. Her hood and shoulders were damp, like she'd been caught in the aftermath of the downpour, and there were dark circles under her eyes as though she hadn't slept properly in a long time. Sherlock took in her features, trying to work out how long it had been since he last laid eyes on his daughter. He missed her.

"What are you doing out here so late?" he asked. "It isn't safe for you to be out here on your own."

"I could ask the same from you," Elspeth retorted. She stuck her hands deep into her pockets and glared at Sherlock defensively, her shoulders hunched. "What are you doing out here?"

"I'm with a client –"

"Of course you are," Elspeth said, turning away.

"What's that supposed to mean? Ellie, don't walk away from me." Sherlock caught Elspeth's arm. "Don't walk away from me," he repeated firmly, the most like himself he'd sounded all night. Elspeth glowered. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You spend weeks getting high and acting like you're the only one who has been hurt by Mary's death," Elspeth snapped. "You don't give a crap about anyone but yourself, you kicked me out, you ignored everyone's attempts to reach out to you, but you manage to drag yourself out of your drug den so you can work on a case because that is clearly more important to you than anything else. You don't care about anyone or anything but yourself. You haven't even noticed that I –" She cut herself short, just seconds away from telling Sherlock about Moriarty. Now wasn't the time. She didn't know when would be the appropriate time, but yelling at her drug addled father in the middle of an empty street wasn't it. "You haven't even noticed anything. You don't care."

Sherlock lowered his gaze, hating himself for putting Elspeth through the ordeal. Everything he did was for a good reason but he couldn't tell anyone, not even his own daughter. He didn't know what it was he hadn't noticed about Elspeth. All he knew was she was suffering.

"I do care," Sherlock began pathetically. Elspeth rolled her eyes. "Don't roll your eyes at me, Ellie, you know I do."

"But drugs are more important, I get it." Elspeth shrugged. "I'm always going to be second priority to you and mum, aren't I?"

"I am not like your mother," Sherlock said immediately, feeling the anger rise when Elspeth accused him of being like Catherine. She looked back at him indifferently and Sherlock had to fight the sudden urge to shake her by the shoulders, refusing to believe he was anything like her mother. "I am nothing like Catherine."

"Why? You're both addicts," Elspeth pointed out. It was like they were doomed from the start; Catherine was an alcoholic and Sherlock could barely look after himself, let alone a child. The difference between Sherlock and Catherine, however, was Sherlock tried as hard as he could to provide their daughter with a good life. Despite everything, he tried every day. "Yeah, that's what I thought," Elspeth said when Sherlock didn't respond. "Enjoy your case."

Sherlock didn't try to stop her from walking away that time.

"Who was that?" Faith asked when Sherlock crossed the road once more, looking dejected. "That looked pretty intense."

He looked over his shoulder, watching Elspeth walk away until she went round the corner and disappeared from sight, almost hoping she would look back a final time and see how sorry he really was. She didn't though. She just kept walking like Sherlock didn't exist anymore, too hurt to acknowledge her father anymore. For a moment, Sherlock considered telling Faith who she was and how they had reached that point in their relationship, but he decided against it. It was one of those things that was better left unsaid.

"No one," Sherlock said instead. "She was no one. Fancy something to eat?"

* * *

 _Thank you Adrillian1497, caritos13, MaryKeat, sophopera, and TheDayDreamingWriter for reviewing! I am so sorry for the delay in updating; I've been without a laptop for two weeks because I had to send it away for repairs._


	15. Chapter 15

_**15.**_

Sherlock had seen many sunrises in his lifetime, some alone, few with other people. When he took Faith's case, he didn't expect to find himself sitting next to her on the South Bank with a baguette watching yet another sunrise. Pulling a few crumbs from his, Sherlock tossed them to the nearby pigeons and glanced at Faith.

"Do you know why I'm going to take your case?" Sherlock asked. "Because of the one impossible thing you've said."

"What impossible thing?"

"You said your life turned on one word," Sherlock said.

"Yes," Faith agreed, remembering what she'd told Sherlock. She hadn't expected to spend the entire night with him, wandering around the streets of London while being followed by the other Holmes brother. "The name of the person my father wanted to kill."

"That's the impossible thing. Just that, right there," Sherlock said. "Names aren't just one word. They're always at least two. Sherlock Holmes, Faith Smith. Santa Claus. Winston Churchill. Napoleon Bonaparte. Actually, just Napoleon would do."

Faith smiled a little. "Or Elvis?"

"Well." Sherlock grimaced. "I think we can rule both of them out as targets."

"Ok, I got it wrong, then," Faith said. "It wasn't only one word, it can't have been."

"And you remember quite distinctly that your whole life turned on one word, so that happened, I don't doubt it," Sherlock said, reassuring Faith a little. She was beginning to doubt her sanity. "But how can that word be a name – a name you instantly recognised that tore your world apart?" Faith shrugged and asked him how, forcing Sherlock to admit, "No idea. Yet. But I don't work for free."

Faith stared at his open palm. She knew what he wanted, but instead chose to ask, "Do you take cash?"

"Not cash, no." Sherlock looked at her pointedly and Faith unzipped her handbag, reluctantly putting the pistol she'd bought with her into his hand. Sherlock rose to his feet, stumbling forwards into the railing and hurling the pistol as hard as he could into the river. His mind wandered to Elspeth, and how she'd admitted to being in the same place as Faith when she thought his death was real. "Taking your own life," Sherlock said, "Interesting expression. Taking it from who? Once it's over, it's not _you_ who will miss it." He glanced at the aquarium, flinching as a gunshot echoed through his mind, thinking back to Mary's death. "Your death is something that happens to everyone else. Your life is not your own." His throat felt tighter; it was harder to talk. "Keep your hands off it."

Sherlock looked down. It felt like he and the railing were suspended in mid-air, no ground beneath him to keep him steady. His hand shook uncontrollably. Closing his eyes, Sherlock let out a long breath and tightened his grip on the rails.

"You're not what I expected," Faith said from behind. Was she still behind him? He couldn't tell. "You're . . ."

Her voice trailed off.

"What –" Sherlock felt breathless. "What am I?"

"Nicer," Faith finished.

"Than who?"

"Anyone."

Sherlock closed his eyes again, squeezing them tight, an anguished scream escaping his lips as he felt himself falling – falling – _falling_. The pain was unbearable. Too much pain. He felt the concrete crack beneath his knees. His sweaty forehead rested against the rail, welcoming the cold sensation against his burning skin.

" _I that am lost, oh will who find me,_ " a voice sang in his ear. " _Deep down be_."

His head snapped up. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the bench.

"Sorry, I –" Sherlock froze; Faith was no longer there. "Faith?"

* * *

Elspeth sat on the edge of the St Bart's roof, staring down at the city below her. It was odd thinking that the one place she had the worst memories of was also the place that provided Elspeth with the most peace, giving her the time she needed to sit and think and watch the world go by. No one would bother her; it was too late at night. She doubted Mycroft noticed her absence in his apartment, wondering if he was at home or another networking function. He was kind enough to let her stay in his spare bedroom, providing a roof over her head and a bed to sleep in, and he was surprisingly good company. More so than Elspeth expected. It was nice to have someone who would listen to her late at night when she found herself crying about Sherlock.

She peered over the edge of the roof. Elspeth thought about her father and how he'd stood in the same spot, Jim Moriarty goading him into jumping from behind. It was high. Incredibly so. Elspeth felt her heart race and tried to imagine how her father felt in that moment. Was he scared?

He must've been. Even Sherlock Holmes got frightened sometimes.

Elspeth paused. Her legs were crossed beneath her and she slowly unfurled them, scooting closer to the edge as she lowered her legs over it. Her breathing got heavier, her heart skipping a beat. For a moment, Elspeth realised she could push herself just a few more inches and fall, just like Sherlock did. She dismissed the thought and curled her fingertips around the ledge behind her, just in case.

"Are you going to jump?" a voice asked. Elspeth jumped and looked over her shoulder at the dark-haired woman standing behind her. "It would be terribly messy if you did, I imagine. Your head would cave in. You might even land on an innocent passer-by and be responsible for their death, not just your own."

"I'm not going to jump," Elspeth said. She swung her legs back round, climbed off the ledge, and sat on the roof with her back against it. "My family don't exactly have the best track record of falling from heights."

The woman – Elspeth supposed she was around Sherlock's age – gave a small smile and wandered forwards, sitting next to Elspeth with her long legs stretched out in front of her.

"Isn't this where the detective jumped?" she asked suddenly.

"Yep," Elspeth said. She curled her legs to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, unable to hide the bitterness in her voice. "Came back a couple of years ago like nothing happened, expecting us all to throw our arms around him and forgive him for probably the worst thing he's ever done in his life." The woman stared at her, raising her eyebrows, and Elspeth sighed. "Sherlock Holmes is my dad. I'm Ellie."

"I didn't know he had a daughter," the woman commented. There was a tinge of something in her voice Elspeth couldn't quite understand – sadness, maybe. "Ellie. Short for Eleanor?"

"Elspeth. My family like weird names," Elspeth said.

"Elspeth is a pretty name. I'm just boring Elizabeth."

"Well, my name is a variation of Elizabeth," Elspeth told her, laughing a little. Elizabeth grinned back at her and Elspeth was struck by the transformation in her otherwise stern features. "My uncle's name is Mycroft. Elspeth, Sherlock, and Mycroft Holmes . . . quite possibly the most dysfunctional family in the whole of London."

"You think your family is bad," Elizabeth said. "One of my brothers keeps me under constant surveillance like I'm a prisoner, and the other acts as though I don't even exist."

"What did you do that was so awful?" Elspeth asked.

"I killed someone."

Elspeth stared at the other woman, who had spoken with such a straight face it was almost believable. Elizabeth gazed back at me for a few seconds before another bright smile spread across her features, the two of them laughing. It felt good to laugh, even if it was with a complete stranger.

"I come here to think, sometimes. Not about jumping," Elspeth added, noticing the gleam in Elizabeth's eyes. "My life is really kind of hectic at the moment, and my family isn't exactly what you would call easy to talk to, especially not when they're half of the problem."

Elizabeth frowned. "Are you not close to your family?"

"Oh no, super close. Ridiculously so, actually," Elspeth said. "My uncle basically runs the British government and he keeps tabs on us, and my Dad . . ." Her voice trailed off. "Well, he's my Dad. He's got me out of foster care when I was a kid and he's been there ever since, and it sucks that he's a massive part of the problem right now." Elspeth bit her bottom lip and tightened her arms around her legs, grinning sheepishly at Elizabeth. "I'm sorry, I've known for two minutes and I'm telling you my crappy life story."

"Sometimes it's easier to speak to a stranger than someone you know," Elizabeth said. "Isn't that why people go to therapy?"

"Normal people," Elspeth said. "I've tried therapy, it doesn't usually end well. Holmes' are inherently bottled up and we refuse to acknowledge our feelings."

Elizabeth laughed under her breath. "You were in foster care?"

"My mum is an alcoholic, she couldn't take care of me. Dad is a drug addict and can barely look after himself, and my uncle is a control freak with boundary issues." Elspeth grimaced. "Guess I was just doomed from the start."

"What about you, then? We all have our vices," Elizabeth said. "What's yours?"

"I'm impulsive and display self-destructive tendencies, according to the therapists," Elspeth said, leaning her head back against the wall and scowling as she remembered the sessions she had years ago. "I make quick decisions and I don't think before I speak or act, and I do things that I know will have a massively bad impact on myself even though I know I'll just regret them later."

"From what I've heard, it doesn't sound like you have positive role models," Elizabeth said.

"You can talk," Elspeth retorted. "Your family sounds _awful_." They both laughed and Elspeth tucked her hair behind her ears, glancing at Elizabeth. "Why did you come here anyway?"

"You're not the only one who needs space to clear their head. I don't get out as often as I would like," Elizabeth said. It was her turn to sound bitter. "I feel like a prisoner in my own home sometimes, it's awful, and my own family act like they don't even care. I just want them to notice me, is that so bad?"

"It's not bad at all," Elspeth said, feeling some sympathy for Elizabeth. She knew what it felt like to be pushed to the side and ignored by your own family, and it was one of the worst feelings in the world. "I would offer you some advice, but based on what I've just told you, I'm probably the last person you would want it from." Elizabeth didn't smile. Elspeth bit her bottom lip, considering everything for a moment. "Families are difficult, believe me, I know it better than anyone. But . . . they should be there for you and they should love you. Even if you did kill someone," she added teasingly.

Elizabeth's expression softened as Elspeth spoke, and she lowered her head for a moment. Elspeth hoped she got through to the older woman and gazed up at the sky, her eyes searching through the clouds for stars.

In her pocket, Elspeth's phone started buzzing. She checked the caller ID and supressed a groan.

"Hey, Mycroft," Elspeth said, holding the phone to her ear.

"Don't _hey_ me, Elspeth, where are you?" Mycroft demanded. "I come home to find an empty apartment – with all the lights still on, I might add. You haven't even touched the dinner I left on the side for you, and now that's defrosted and gone to waste."

"I wasn't hungry, sorry." Elspeth grimaced at Elizabeth, who watched her with some fascination. "I'm at St Bart's, I just needed to get some air, clear my head a little."

"Next time, leave a note," Mycroft said. "It's late now, it isn't safe for you to be gallivanting around London on your own, for the second time this week." When Elspeth didn't argue or contradict him, Mycroft continued in a gentler tone, "Wait in the reception and I'll have a car collect you. I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing you'd been abducted or worse while under my care."

"Ever the optimist," Elspeth said. "I'll be back soon."

"He sounded concerned," Elizabeth said, having overheard a little of the conversation. Though she hadn't made out everything Mycroft said to his niece, there was no denying the tone of his voice. "That's the kind of family I want."

"I'm sure your family are concerned about you," Elspeth said. "Look, I better head inside before my uncle has a hysterical fit because I'm not at the car straight away."

"I'll walk down with you," Elizabeth said.

They walked in comfortable silence, like they'd known each other for years rather than the minutes they'd spent on the hospital rooftop together, and Elspeth found herself unable to shake the weird feeling that followed her. It was an odd sensation of familiarity. She didn't know how or why she felt it, but there was something about Elizabeth that made Elspeth wonder. Maybe she just had one of those faces, the sort that made you think you knew the person when really you didn't. The unexpected company had been a pleasant surprise.

"It was nice meeting you," Elspeth said, looking to her side. She stopped.

"Are you alright, miss?" a passing nurse asked.

"Yeah, yeah," Elspeth said. She turned around, her eyes sweeping over the hospital reception, but Elizabeth was gone. It was almost like she'd never been there to begin with.

* * *

 _Thank you Adrillian1497 for reviewing! Hope you all enjoy the chapter, please let me know what you think; I love hearing from my readers xoxo_


	16. Chapter 16

_**16.**_

"Tell me about your morning. Start from the beginning."

John smiled tightly. "I woke up."

"How did you sleep?" the therapist – not Ella – asked, her German accent soft and understanding.

"I didn't," John said. "I don't."

"You just said you woke up."

"I stopped lying down," John corrected.

"Alone?"

"Of course alone."

"I meant Rosie," the therapist elaborated. "Your daughter."

"She's with friends."

"Why?"

"Can't always cope, and . . . uh . . . last night wasn't good," John said, hating himself. His therapist told him it was understandable; he'd just lost his wife. "Is it? Why is it understandable? Why does everything have to be understandable?" He laughed bitterly. "Why can't some things be unacceptable and we just say that? I'm letting my daughter down. How the hell is that ok? I just lost my wife, yeah, but Rosie lost her mother."

John inhaled sharply, clenching and unclenching his fist.

"You are holding yourself to an unreasonable standard."

"No, I'm failing to."

"So there is no one you talk to, confide in?"

"No one," John lied, looking over the therapist's shoulder at Mary. She wasn't there, not really, but it didn't stop him from talking to her like she was. He felt her most days, touching his shoulder, kissing his cheek, even lying next to him during those sleepless nights where he stared at the ceiling and listened to the silence. He huffed a small laugh and shook his head. "Absolutely no one."

"What are you looking at?" the therapist asked. "You keep glancing to my left."

"Oh." John paused. "I suppose I was just . . . looking away."

"There is a difference between looking away and looking to. I tend to notice these things," she said with a little smile. John's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Now I am reminding you of your friend, I think."

"It's not necessarily a good thing."

"Do you talk to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I haven't seen him. No one's seen him, he's locked away in his flat," John said. "God knows what he's up to."

* * *

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends!" Sherlock yelled, charging from the kitchen into the living room while wielding a pistol in his hand. "Once more!" Around the room, countless photos of Culverton Smith were stuck on the walls, scattered on every surface, hanging from pieces of string by clothes pegs. "Or close the wall up with our English dead! Set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide." He kicked the living room door closed. "Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit to his full height! On, on, you noblest English whose blood is fet from fathers of war proof!"

Outside, Mrs Hudson stopped outside the living room door and looked behind her. Elspeth raced up the stairs, the first time she'd returned to Baker Street in weeks, and stopped to listen to her father's nonsensical ramblings.

"And you, good yeoman, whose limbs were made in England, show us here the mettle of your pasture! Which I doubt not, for there is none of you so mean and base that hath not lustre in your eyes!"

"Bill called me," Elspeth said under her breath, opening the door without caution or worry. She walked inside with Mrs Hudson following close behind, peering into the kitchen.

"I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start!" Sherlock ranted. He whirled around all of a sudden, Mrs Hudson and Elspeth barely having seconds to duck out of the way before Sherlock fired at the wall behind the sofa. Several holes were blown into photos of Culverton Smith. "The game's afoot." He took in a heavy breath as Mrs Hudson pushed the kitchen door open, glancing at his landlady. "Oh, hello. Can I have a cup of tea?"

Elspeth took a photo from one of the pegs, looking at it closely, then glanced around the entire room. She thought the rumours of Sherlock accusing Culverton Smith being a serial killer were just those – _rumours_.

"Why do you have all these pictures?" Elspeth asked, turning around to face Sherlock.

"What pictures?" Sherlock wandered into the living room. "Oh, these pictures! You can see them too. That's good." He went back to the kitchen, where Mrs Hudson was making him a cup of tea like he'd requested, and scowled. "Cup of tea! Oh, for goodness sake, what's the matter with you?" he demanded from Mrs Hudson, who clutched the cup and saucer with shaking hands. "Are you having an earthquake?"

Mrs Hudson dropped the cup and saucer.

Time slowed down then. Sherlock acted on instinct and dropped the pistol, reaching for the cup. Elspeth felt herself moving forwards – towards Sherlock and Mrs Hudson – and stopped in the doorway. Before Sherlock could straighten up, Mrs Hudson snatched the gun from mid-air, aiming it at Sherlock.

"Right then, mister, I need your handcuffs. I happen to know there's a pair in the salad drawer," Mrs Hudson said. "Ellie, go fetch those nice boys from the shop. We're going to need all the help we can get."

As much as Elspeth would've liked to watch Mrs Hudson restrain Sherlock with the handcuffs, she did as the landlady asked and left the living room, ready to go ask the men in the shop next door for a rather odd favour. Still, it was nothing they probably hadn't heard before. She was about to step out of the front door when her phone rang, a familiar number appearing on the screen.

"What do you want?" Elspeth asked.

"Hello to you too, love," Moriarty drawled. "So I heard daddy lost the plot and started accusing celebrities of being serial killers. I'm insulted he's moved on so quickly."

"He doesn't even know you're alive." Elspeth closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long breath. "Did you actually call me for a reason, or did you just want to gloat?"

"Maybe I should pop round for a visit, bring some flowers," Moriarty continued like Elspeth hadn't spoken. She froze. "After all, we did have _such_ good fun together and it's insulting to my memory – well, his memory of me – that he's moved on like this. He should be in mourning really."

"Goodbye, Jim," Elspeth said. She hung up, turned her phone off, and went next door to ask for help with bundling Sherlock into the boot of a car.

* * *

"Well now," John's therapist said, opening her front door and looking at the red Aston Martin that had crashed into the bins outside, several police cars in pursuit. John looked at the helicopter hovering overhead "Won't you introduce me?"

The passenger door opened first, a red-cheeked and windswept Elspeth climbing out with a grin spread across her face. She stopped when she saw John, her mouth open as if she was going to talk but no words were coming out. John recognised the uncertain expression on her face and found himself taking a step towards her, ready to embrace her, but he stopped when Mrs Hudson got out from the driver's side. She ignored the police's demands to stay where she was, handed them her mobile phone, and pulled John into a tight hug while Elspeth hung back.

"It's Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson cried. "You've no idea what we've been through!"

Elspeth wandered over, still lingering behind Mrs Hudson like she didn't know where her place was in it all. "He's had some kind of . . . break down," she said, biting her bottom lip and stuffing her hands in her pockets. "He's accused some celebrity – Culverton Smith – of being a serial killer. On twitter. It's gone viral."

"Sherlock on twitter," John said wryly. "He really has lost it."

"Don't you dare make jokes, don't you _dare_ ," Mrs Hudson scolded. "I was terrified! We both were, poor Ellie hasn't been living at home for weeks now, goodness knows what would've happened if Mycroft hadn't let her stay in his spare room. You need to see him, John, you need to help him! He _needs_ you!"

"We need you," Elspeth said in a quiet voice. John looked at her for a long moment and remembered the first time he'd met her, flouncing into the living room of 221B with her unruly hair and a cheeky grin. She was young then, but even now as an adult she had the same vulnerability in her eyes as she gazed at John. John didn't know what had happened to make her move into the spare bedroom of Mycroft's apartment, but he knew it must've been bad for her to leave Sherlock in such a state.

"Have you spoke to Mycroft, Molly – uh . . . anyone?" John asked.

"They don't matter, you do," Mrs Hudson said. "Would you just see him? Please, John. Or take a look at him as a doctor?"

John shook his head, then caught sight of Elspeth's pleading gaze and sighed. "Yeah, ok, maybe, if I get the chance. I'll try, if I'm in the area."

Mrs Hudson beamed and all but skipped to the boot of the car, lifting it for John to see. Squashed and handcuffed, Sherlock Holmes gazed up at them with an almost anxious expression, an odd sight to see on the otherwise confident detective. Elspeth had to bite her lip to stop herself from smiling when she saw the look on John's face.

"On you go," Mrs Hudson said. "Examine him!"

"Perhaps we should take this inside," the therapist suggested, still watching the scene unfold from her doorway. The neighbours were beginning to poke their heads out, drawn by the commotion they were causing, and Mrs Hudson reluctantly unlocked the handcuffs holding Sherlock's hands behind his back. He clambered out of the boot of the car, drew himself to his full height, and glared at Mrs Hudson and John. Sherlock almost resembled his old self in that moment.

Before Elspeth could follow her father inside, John gently grasped her arm and pulled her back. It had been a long time since he'd seen her; too long, it felt like. Molly had mentioned that Elspeth went with her when she took Rosie out for a walk, but he hadn't heard anything since. There were times he felt like picking up the phone and calling her, ask her to come round, but with Elspeth came Sherlock and John just couldn't face him. When he realised Elspeth had moved out of Baker Street, John hated himself even more for letting her down. He couldn't look after Rosie, he couldn't be there for Elspeth, he couldn't even get rid of the image of his dead wife.

"Well?" John asked, still holding Elspeth's arm. She bit her lip and gazed back at him, not willing to open yet. "Come on, Ellie, don't play dumb. What happened with Sherlock? Why have you been living with Mycroft?"

"You've seen the state of him," Elspeth said.

"Yeah, and the Ellie I know wouldn't leave Sherlock in that kind of state," John said.

"Maybe I'm not the Ellie you thought you knew," Elspeth said, pulling her arm away and looking like she was blinking back tears. "Maybe I'm not the Ellie _anyone_ thought they knew because _no one_ has bothered to actually ask how I am or what's going on anymore. I moved out because Dad told me to go, ok? He cares more about his drugs than me and he told me that if I had a problem with it, I knew where the door was, so I left and Mycroft is the only person I thought I could turn to." She shook her head like she was trying to clear her thoughts and John felt another pang of guilt for isolating himself for so long, beginning to realise he wasn't the only person suffering. "Life pretty much sucks for everyone right now, so I won't blame you for not wanting to help."

"You know why," John said in a tight voice. "You _know_ why I can't."

"Can't or won't?" Elspeth asked. She tucked her hair behind her ear, giving John a sad smile. "You're kind of our last hope now, John, because I seriously have no idea what to do."

She didn't wait for an answer before walking inside. After a moment of consideration, John took in a deep breath and followed her.

* * *

 _Thank you Adrillian1497, KBH, and boardwalkblue for reviewing! I'm getting super excited to be delving deeper into The Lying Detective! xoxo_


	17. Chapter 17

_**17.**_

"The woman's out of control," Sherlock said, storming into the therapist's home and rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had been biting into the skin. "I asked for a cup of tea!" He stopped partway down the hall, picked up a vase, and took the flowers from it before continuing forwards. "And those boys from the café dropped me. _Twice_."

"Do you know why they dropped you, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked. "Because they _know_ you."

Sherlock dumped the flowers on the side and took a drink from the vase, grimacing at the taste of dirty water. Rolling her eyes, Elspeth started to search through the cupboards for a proper glass.

"Who's this one?" Sherlock pointed to John's therapist, who was standing with a phone to her ear. "Is this a new person? I'm against new people."

John took in a deep breath. "She's my therapist."

"Awesome. Do you do block bookings?"

"Shut up, Dad," Elspeth said. She pried the vase from his hand and replaced it with a glass of water, putting the flowers back where they belonged while John marvelled at Mrs Hudson's car in the hallway. Returning to the consultation room, Elspeth watched Sherlock fall into a chair heavily and sigh, grimacing. She had never seen him like that. Not even in his darkest days. He was a broken man and Elspeth didn't know if they could fix him this time.

"I'm so sorry," the therapist said to John in the hallway. "I answered your phone. You were busy. I think you'll want to take it."

John rolled his eyes and took the phone. He didn't have time for this. "Uh, yes, hello?"

"Is this Doctor John Watson? This is Culverton Smith, you've probably heard of me," Culverton said. John froze for a second, then agreed that, yes, he had heard of him. "I mean, I'm aware of this morning's developments, but we are all still meeting, I assume?"

"Yes, I'm sure he was being . . ." John grimaced. "Hilarious. Sorry, did you say all still meeting?"

"You, me, Mr Holmes, and I suppose Miss Holmes if she's available. I've sent a car – should be outside. Mr Holmes gave me an address."

"Well, he couldn't have given you _this_ one," John said. "It's –" He was cut off by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Opening the front door, John saw a black limousine waiting outside for them, ready when they were. "When did Sherlock give you this address?"

"Two weeks ago," Culverton said.

Without thinking, John hung up the phone.

"How did you know?" he demanded, walking into the consulting room. Sherlock was still slumped in the chair John had previously occupied, and Elspeth stood by the window, biting her lip as she watched her father. She looked up at John's arrival. A small bead of blood appeared on her bottom lip from where she'd been chewing on it. " _How?_ On Monday, I decided to get a new therapist. Tuesday afternoon, I chose her." He pointed at the therapist. "Wednesday morning, I booked today's session. Now today is Friday. So two weeks ago – two weeks before you were abducted at gunpoint and brought here against your will – over a week before I even thought of coming here, you knew exactly where you'd need to be picked up for lunch?"

"This is Dad we're talking about," Elspeth said in a low voice. She reached up and brushed the blood off her lip, a drop staining her chin. "Do you really need to ask how he knew?"

"Never mind how," John said. "I want to know why."

"Because I'm burning up," Sherlock said. "I'm at the bottom of a pit and I'm still falling and . . ." He shook his head. "I'm never climbing out." He climbed to his feet unsteadily, and under normal circumstances Elspeth would've rushed to his side. She couldn't move though. "I need you to know, John – I need you to see that up here –" He tapped his temples. "– is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have ever encountered. When I tell you that this monster _must_ be ended, please remember where you're standing because you're standing _exactly_ where I said you be two weeks ago." Sherlock grimaced in pain, slumping back into the chair. "I'm a mess. I'm in hell, but I am not wrong, not about him."

"So what has all this got to do with me?" John asked.

Sherlock pointed at the photo of Culverton on the open laptop screen. "That creature, that rotting _thing_ , is a living breathing coagulation of human evil, and if the only thing I ever do in this world is drive him out of it, then my life has not been wasted," he said. He didn't notice the way Elspeth flinched and looked away. "Look at me. I can't do it, not now. Not alone."

John sighed, pulled in a sharp breath, and extended his hand. Sherlock stood up and let his friend push his sleeves up, revealing the multiple dark marks on the underside of his arm.

"Yeah, well, they're real enough, I suppose," John said.

"Why would I be faking?"

"Because you're a liar. You lie all the time," John said. "It's like your mission."

"He isn't lying," Elspeth said quietly. Sherlock glanced her way, like he'd almost forgotten she was standing there, and stopped when he saw the dark circles under her eyes and the faint blood on her chin. She couldn't even bring herself to look at Sherlock. "Just . . . examine him and you'll see what kind of a state he's in."

"I need a second opinion," John said. Sherlock scoffed. "I need the one person who – unlike me – learned to see through your bullshit long ago."

"Ellie is hardly medically qualified . . ."

"Molly Hooper," John snapped. "I want you to be examined by Molly Hooper."

"You're really not going to like this," Sherlock said, cringing slightly. A moment later, the doorbell rung and Molly Hooper was standing on the front door with her lab coat over her clothes, timidly explaining that Sherlock had given her the time and address about two weeks ago.

* * *

With Sherlock in the back of the ambulance, Elspeth and John were left to sit in the back of the limo in uncomfortable silence, ignoring the elephant in the room. John pretended like Mary wasn't sitting on the other seat, berating him about how he was treating Sherlock, and Elspeth acted as though her life wasn't falling apart and her father hadn't basically said his life was wasted.

"Ellie," John began as the limo pulled up in the car park.

"Don't," she said. "Just . . . don't."

John gazed at her for a few seconds, then decided against pressing further. He got out of the limo and approached Molly, who was hunched on the back step of the ambulance with her hands clasped together.

"Well? How is he?"

"I've seen healthier people on the slab," Molly said.

"Yeah but, to be fair, you work with murder victims," Sherlock said. "They tend to be quite young."

"Not funny. If you keep taking what you're taking at the rate you're taking it," Molly said tearfully. "You've got weeks."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "Weeks. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Weeks?" Elspeth repeated. No one had noticed or heard her approach, and as she gazed at Sherlock with tear filled eyes, everyone felt their heart drop. They hadn't meant for Elspeth to overhear. "Are you dying?"

"Ellie," Sherlock said. "I –"

"Mr Holmes!" Culverton Smith called, walking across the car park with Cornelia, his assistant, and a camera man walking alongside him.

"Thirty feet and closing, the most significant undetected serial killer in British criminal history," Sherlock said rapidly, almost too fast for John and Elspeth to hear. Instinctively, Sherlock moved closer to his daughter and gently pushed her behind him so she was just in view. "Help me bring him down."

"How?" John asked.

"I'm not telling you because you won't like it."

"Mr Holmes," Culverton said again, smiling from ear to ear. "I don't do handshakes, it'll have to be a hug!" He walked forwards and embraced Sherlock, patting him on the back a couple of times. "Oh, Sherlock. What can I say? Thanks to you . . ." Culverton released Sherlock and stepped back, looking at everyone surrounding them. "We're everywhere!" Noticing Elspeth lingering between Sherlock and John, his smile widened. "And this must be the apple of your eye, hey, Sherlock? Ellie Holmes – you're even prettier than the pictures!"

Sherlock shifted slightly, his movement barely noticeable to the people surrounding them. He moved even closer to Elspeth and angled his body to shield hers, almost hiding her from view.

"Don't," he said. Culverton looked at him. "Don't touch her."

Lifting his hands in mock defence, Culverton laughed and said, "Hands to myself at all times. Lets take this inside, shall we?"

* * *

"I'm a killer," Culverton said. "You _know_ I'm a killer. But did you know . . . I'm a cereal killer?"

"And cut there," the director called. "Thank you."

Elspeth moved next to Sherlock and stuffed her hands in her pockets, watching Culverton film his newest advert. He'd taken full advantage of Sherlock's accusation, using killer-related puns and joking about confessing to the detective.

Putting down the bowl, Culverton spat into the bin a young woman – not much older than Elspeth – provided him with. He said something that made her laugh nervously, then looked her up and down and spoke in a low voice. The young woman's smile tightened and she leaned back, looking uncomfortable as she walked away. Elspeth felt a little relieved Sherlock didn't let Culverton near her; she dreaded to think what he would say.

"Has it occurred to you – anywhere in your drug addled brain – that you've just been played?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"For an ad campaign," John said.

"Brilliant, isn't it? Safest place to hide," Sherlock said, staring at Culverton. "Plain sight."

"Mr Holmes? Culverton wants to know if you're ok going straight to the hospital," Cornelia said. "Culverton is doing a visit and the kids would love to meet you both. Well, all three of you, I suppose," she added, noticing Elspeth raise her eyebrows in obvious contempt at being ignored. "I think he sort of promised."

"Oh, ok," Sherlock said. Cornelia led them away, and Elspeth couldn't shake the feeling of being watched as she did. She looked over her shoulder, glancing at Culverton. His grim stare sent a shiver down her spine, but when he realised her eyes were on him, he gave her an overly big smile and enthusiastic wave. Elspeth didn't smile back at him. She almost bumped into Sherlock as she stepped out of the studio. "Did he say anything to you?"

"No," Elspeth said. "Why the concern all of a sudden?"

"I don't want him anywhere near you," Sherlock said. He went to put his hand on Elspeth's shoulder like he normally would, but she moved away and went to walk with John. Sherlock tried not to feel guilty; he only had himself to blame.

The limousine was already waiting for them outside, and Cornelia assured them that Culverton Smith would meet them at the hospital. Sherlock climbed in one side and John waited for Elspeth to get in next, closing the door as he settled next to her. Sherlock didn't acknowledge either of them typing on a phone that wasn't his.

"So," John said after a few seconds of silence. "What are we doing here? What's the point?"

"I needed a hug," Sherlock said. He didn't look up from the phone. Elspeth stretched her legs out in front of her and stared at the scuff marks on the toes of her boots, trying to remember the last time she bought herself a new pair of shoes in an attempt to distract herself from thinking about Sherlock's inevitable fate. Weeks. He only had weeks. If he kept taking whatever he was taking at that rate, he would be dead in weeks. For real, this time. There would be no coming back from that, no big revelation that he had faked his death for several years, no falling back into the usual routine. He would be gone.

Elspeth wiped the tears away, sniffing. John reached out and grasped her hand in his own.

Culverton knocked on the car window on John's side, waiting for it to be lowered before bending to look in. "What do you think, Mr Holmes? Cereal killer!"

"It's funny because it's true," Sherlock said. He finished typing on the phone and looked up. "You can have this back now."

"Have what back?" Culverton asked, trying to look nonchalant.

Sherlock reached across John and Elspeth, holding out the phone he'd taken from Culverton's pocket. "Thanks for the hug. Oh, I sent and deleted a text. You might get a reply, but I doubt it."

"It's password protected," Culverton said.

"Like that's going to stop him," Elspeth muttered without thinking, staring ahead of her so she wouldn't have to look at Culverton. He gave her the creeps.

Culverton laughed. "We're going to have endless fun, Mr Holmes, aren't we?"

"Oh no." Sherlock gave Culverton a hard look and said, "No, not endless."

* * *

 _Thank you Adrillian1497, boardwalkblue, and sophopera for reviewing! Hopefully this chapter wasn't too jumpy as the episode itself has a lot of switch scenes etc that are difficult to translate into prose . . . I've tried to make it flow as smoothly as possible, I hope you all enjoy it! xoxo_


	18. Chapter 18

_**18.**_

Weeks.

Sherlock had weeks to live. Elspeth bit her lip and leaned against the wall, listening to the nurse and John chat casually, all of them pretending Sherlock wasn't getting high in the men's toilets. She wanted nothing more than to storm in there and knock the drugs straight out of his hands, but the faint remains of a scratch on her hand reminded her of what happened the last time she tried to do that. She couldn't meet his eyes when he stepped out, grinning like a fool. Elspeth hated him. She hated him so much for doing this to her, to John, to Mycroft. She hated him for being so selfish.

The patients and nurses were far more pleased to see Sherlock than Elspeth was, applauding as he was led into the children's ward. Culverton gave a grand introduction. The applause died down when he did the same for John, and no one even acknowledged Elspeth when she trailed in finally. Trying not to scowl, she found a place on the seating area a few spots away from Culverton. She took her phone from her bag and turned it on.

"Mr Holmes," Culverton said. "I was wondering – well, we _all_ were, weren't we? – maybe you could tell us about some of your cases?"

"No," Sherlock said.

"Yes," John said at the same time.

"Yes! Absolutely, yes," Sherlock amended, walking forwards to the circle of children on the floor. All eyes were on him, apart from Elspeth's. She was too busy scrolling through all the messages Moriarty had sent her while her phone was off; he didn't like being ignored. "The main feature of interest in the field of criminal investigation is not the sensational aspects of the crime itself, but rather the iron chain of reasoning, from cause to effect, that reveals – step by step – the solution. That's the only truly remarkable aspect of the entire affair. Now I will share with you the facts and evidence as they were available to me, and in this very room you will all attempt to solve the case of Blessington the Poisoner."

John frowned. "I think you slightly gave away the ending."

"There were five main suspects –" Sherlock continued.

"One of them called Blessington," John said. Sherlock shot him a look over his shoulder.

"– but it's more about how he did it."

"Let me guess," Elspeth said, tearing her eyes from her phone long enough to glance at Sherlock and raise her eyebrows. "Poison."

The children laughed and Sherlock glowered at his daughter. She stuck her tongue out at him before turning her attention back to her phone, listening to him struggle to form a coherent sentence. He jumped from one case to the other, asking John what he called the story of the murder at the zoo, and tried to make the audience laugh the same Elspeth had. He failed miserably. The children seemed to pick up on his erratic behaviour and John kept looking to the side of the room like there was someone there, not quite paying attention.

"Mr Holmes?" Culverton piped up when Sherlock asked if anyone had any questions. Elspeth looked up from her phone, finally reaching the end of the many texts Moriarty sent her. "How do you catch a serial killer?"

Sherlock stopped, turning and looking at him for a long moment. "Same way you catch any other killer."

"No, but most killers kill someone they know," Culverton said. "You're looking for a murderer in a tiny social grouping."

"Um, Mr Smith," the nurse spoke up. "I'm just – um – wondering . . . maybe this isn't a suitable subject for the children."

Culverton spoke quietly, not looking at her. "Nurse Cornish, how long have you been with us now?"

"Seven years."

"Seven years. Ok." Culverton stared at her and Elspeth didn't like the look in his eyes, sensing an unspoken threat lingering on the end of his sentence. He turned back to Sherlock, ignoring the discomfort on the adult's faces. "Serial killers choose their victims at random. Surely that must make it more difficult?"

"Not necessarily," Elspeth said quietly, without thinking. Culverton turned to her and raised an eyebrow, silently asking her to continue. Her eyes swept over the room for a moment. Sitting up a bit straighter and lowering her phone, Elspeth carried on. "You say serial killers choose randomly, but that's not always the case. A lot of them have specific profiles for their victims, like Jack the Ripper or the Green River Killer – they chose prostitutes because they're disappearances would go unnoticed for a long time. Victims often share the same physical characteristics, and even if they're not known to the killer, their selection is rarely _random_."

"Well," Culverton said, leaning back in his seat in an overly-exaggerated manner. "She's certainly your daughter, Sherlock. Anything to add?"

"Some serial killers advertise," Sherlock said. He hadn't taken his eyes off Elspeth while she spoke. "It is an expression of power, ego, a signature in human destruction." He looked away from his daughter, locking his gaze on Culverton instead. "Ultimately, for _full_ satisfaction, it requires plan sight. Additionally, serial killers are easily profiled. They tend to be social outcasts, educationally sub-normal."

"No, no, no," Culverton said. "You're just talking about the ones you know, the ones you've caught. But hello, dummy, you only catch the dumb ones. Now, imagine if the Queen wanted to kill some people. What would happen then?"

Elspeth's phone lit up with a text and she opened it, trying not to laugh; **Did he just call me dumb? xx** A chilling thought went through her mind as she realised Moriarty had somehow overheard the conversation, her eyes darting about the room. She received another text; **Look to your right, my dear. Smile, you're on camera! xx**

She turned and glared at the security camera. Somehow, it didn't surprise her he'd hacked into the feed.

"All that power, all that money," Culverton continued. "Sweet little government dancing attendance. A whole country just to keep her warm and fat." He smiled at the children. "We all love the Queen, don't we? And I bet she'd love you a lot!"

"It's alright, everyone," John said quickly, stepping forwards. "I can personally assure you that Sherlock Holmes is not about to arrest the Queen."

"Of course not! Not her Majesty!" Culverton said. "Money, power, fame. Some things make you untouchable." Elspeth looked past him, meeting John's eyes over Culverton's head. Though neither of them spoke, they met a silent agreement that they finally understood Sherlock's obsession. "God save the Queen! She could open a slaughterhouse and we'd all probably pay the entrance fee!"

"No one's untouchable," John said.

Culverton looked at him. "No one?" he repeated. When he was met with stoic silence, he looked back at the children and chuckled. "Look at you! So gloomy! Can't you take a joke? The Queen! If the Queen was a serial killer, I'd be the first person she'd tell! We have that kind of friendship." He rose to his feet. "A big round of applause for Sherlock and Ellie Holmes, and Doctor Watson!"

* * *

The elevator ride was uncomfortable, to say the least. Sherlock had manoeuvred Elspeth into the furthest corner from Culverton and stood between them, shielding her with his body despite barely meeting her eyes all day. His hand hung limply between them. As angry as she was at him, Elspeth didn't stop herself from reaching out and grasping it with hers. She expected him to pull away, given the state he was in, so she was surprised when his hand tightened. Elspeth could feel the tremors travelling from his wrist to his shoulder, blinking back the tears as she thought about what Molly had said.

Weeks. He only had weeks.

"Speaking of serial killers," Culverton said, breaking the silence. "You know who's my favourite?"

"Other than yourself?" Sherlock asked. Laughing, Culverton laughed and led them out of the elevator when it reached their floor.

"H.H. Holmes," he said. Elspeth released Sherlock's hand and rolled her eyes, waiting for the inevitable question. "Relative of yours?"

"Nope," Elspeth said immediately. She didn't know for certain – she'd never had the time nor patience to trace their family tree back that far – but many serial killer enthusiasts had asked the same question over the years, and it was amusing the first few times. Now it was wearing thin, and she'd heard all there was to hear about the infamous killer and his methods.

"You should check, make sure," Culverton told her. "What an idiot." He pushed open a set of double doors and ordered the morticians out of the room. There were only four, three men and a woman, dressed in the same green scrub with disposable aprons over the top. When Elspeth noticed the dead body lying on the examination table, she felt a wave of anxiety roll over her. One of the morticians started to explain that they were in the middle of something, but Culverton fixed him with a cold stare. "Saheed, isn't it? How long have you been working here now?"

"Four years," Saheed said, nervous.

"Four years. That's a long time, isn't it?" Culverton remarked. He drew his lips back. It was supposed to resemble a smile, but looked far more like an animalistic snarl. "Four years."

"Ok, everyone," Saheed said, indicating it was time for them to leave. He pulled the sheet over the face of the body and started towards the door. "Five minutes?"

"Come back in ten." Culverton waited until they reached the door, then called out again. "Saheed. This time, knock."

Elspeth froze. Her mind raced with questions as she mulled over the implications of Culverton's order, unintentionally beginning to imagine what Saheed – or any other workers – may have interrupted by walking in without knocking. Instantly disgusted, she shot a horrified look at Culverton and felt herself recoiling from him even as John and Sherlock stepped closer, wondering if his actions went beyond Sherlock's accusations.

"How can you do that?" John asked. "I mean, how are you even allowed in here?"

"Oh, I can go anywhere I like." Culverton took a ring from his pocket, the many keys hanging from it jangling noisily when he shook it. He smiled. "Anywhere at all."

"They gave you keys," Elspeth said flatly, forcing herself to look at him.

"They presented them to me. There was a ceremony, you can watch it on YouTube," Culverton said while Sherlock approached a nearby cabinet, opening the door. "Home Secretary was there."

"So, your favourite room," Sherlock said. "The mortuary."

"What do you think? You look a little pale there, Ellie," Culverton added jovially. She glared at him. "Fancy a sit down? Or a nap! I'm sure we could find room for you somewhere, though it might be a little chilly!"

"Tough crowd," Sherlock said, opening the next cabinet and revealing the body on the shelf.

"Oh, I don't know," Culverton said. He pulled the sheet off the body in the centre of the room, reaching out to pull at her jaw. "I've always found them quite pliable."

"Don't do that," John snapped.

"She's fine. She's dead." Culverton gazed at the dead woman for a long moment, finally releasing her. "H.H. Holmes loved the dead. He mass-produced them. Do you know what he did? He built a hotel, a special hotel, just to kill people. You know, with a hanging room, gas chamber, specially adapted furnace. You know, like Sweeney Todd." He took hold of the dead woman's jaw again, moving with as he spoke like she was a ventriloquist's dummy and not a person. "Without the pies!" He let go again, laughing. "Stupid. So stupid."

Elspeth leaned against a locker, lightheaded. John grabbed the sheet and replaced it over the woman's face.

"Why stupid?"

"Well, all that effort. You don't build a beach if you want to hide a pebble, you just find a beach!" Culverton said. Sherlock stopped at the far end of the room and leaned back against a sink, watching, listening. "And if you want to hide a murder, or want to hide lots and lots of murders, just find a hospital."

Elspeth's eyes snapped upwards. "Was that a confession?" she asked, her feet moving forwards even though she wanted nothing more than to shrink back into a corner. "Are you confessing?"

John stopped her from moving any closer, his hand wrapped around her arm.

"Oh, sorry," Culverton said softly. "Yes. You mean, am I a serial killer, or am I trying to mess with your pretty little head? Well, it's true. I do like to mess with people, and yes, I am a bit creepy, but that's just my U.S.P. I use it to sell breakfast cereal. But am I what he says I am?" He pointed at Sherlock. "Is that what you're asking?"

"No need to ask," Elspeth said angrily, hating herself for ever doubting Sherlock.

The smile dropped from Culverton's face. He shook his head. "Are you serious? No, really, are you?" he demanded, walking towards John and Elspeth. Instantly, John pulled her back and put himself between them, keeping an arm out to protect her. "Are you actually serious? I've played along with this joke. It's not funny anymore. No, _look_ at him." He gestured towards Sherlock, and Elspeth saw how desperately her father tried to breathe and keep his eyes open. Sherlock was desperate for his next hit. "Go ahead, look at him. I'll lay it out for you. There are two possible explanations for what's going on here – either I'm a serial killer, or Sherlock Holmes is off his tits on drugs! Which one is more likely, Miss Holmes?"

Elspeth looked between Culverton and Sherlock, and suddenly, she didn't feel certain of anything anymore.

* * *

 _Thank you Adrillian1497 and boardwalkblue for reviewing!_


	19. Chapter 19

_**19.**_

"Don't," Sherlock said quietly. "Don't start believing _him_ over me."

"Delusional paranoia about a public personality? That's not so special," Culverton said. Elspeth's eyes darted from him to Sherlock, then to John as she looked for some kind of help. "It's not even new!" He looked at Sherlock, putting on a stage whisper. "I think you need to – er – tell your faithful friend and daughter how you're wasting their time because you're too high to know what's real anymore."

"I apologise," Sherlock said, but he wasn't looking at John or Elspeth. "I've . . . miscalculated. I forgot to factor in the traffic!" He looked at his watch, his eyes comically wide. Elspeth shook her head, biting her bottom lip. "Nineteen and a half minutes." He cleared his throat and walked forwards a few steps, cupping his ear when he reached the doors. "Ah, the footsteps you're about to hear will be very familiar to you, not least because there'll be three impacts rather than two. The third, of course, will be the end of a walking cane. Your daughter Faith's walking cane."

"And why would _she_ be here?" Culverton asked.

"You invited her. You sent her a text – or technically I sent her a text, but she's not to know. Let's see if I can recall." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Faith . . . I can stand it no longer, I've confessed . . . to my crimes. Please forgive me."

Culverton forced a smile. "Why would that have any effect? You don't know her."

"Oh, but I do. I spent a whole evening with her. We had chips," Sherlock said, grinning. Suddenly Elspeth remembered that night she saw Sherlock in the streets, how he had told her he was with a client. It made sense then. "I think she liked me."

"You don't know Faith," Culverton said. "You simply do not."

"I know you care about her deeply. I know you invited her to one of your special board meetings. You care what she thinks," Sherlock said, stepping even closer to Culverton and smiling smugly. "You maintain an _impressive_ façade. I think it's about to break."

"You would know all about that though, wouldn't you, Mr Holmes?" Culverton asked. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "The lengths we go to in order to protect our little girls . . ." His eyes drifted to Elspeth, who watched the exchange uncertainly. "You'd give up your own life to protect her, wouldn't you? Do whatever it takes, go to extreme measures, if it meant your daughter was safe and healthy. You might think I'm maintaining a façade, but I'm not the only one."

Sherlock's smile dropped. "She came to Baker Street. She came to see me because she was scared of her daddy."

"No she didn't," Culverton said. "Never happened. Is this another one of your drug-fuelled fantasies?"

"Let's see, shall we?" Sherlock raised his voice, calling over his shoulder. "Faith, stop loitering at the door and come in! This is your father's favourite room. Come and meet his best friends."

The door opened. "Dad? What's happening? What was that text?" Faith asked, walking in. "Are you having one of your jokes?" She glanced at Sherlock. "Who are you?"

Sherlock stared at her. She was very similar to the Faith who came to his flat, but not the same; she had different shade of blonde, different shaped glasses. The walking cane was the same but her face wasn't. He shut his eyes and opened them again, hoping it was all just a mistake, but she was still a completely different woman. He'd made a mistake.

"Who the hell are _you_?" Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock Holmes, surely you recognise him," Culverton said to his daughter.

"Oh my god! Sherlock Holmes!" Faith grinned. "I love your blog."

"You're not her. You're not the woman who came to Baker Street," Sherlock said. Faith shook her head and said she had never been there. "Sorry, I'm not sure I completely understand."

"I thought you two were old friends!" Culverton said.

"We've never met," Faith said. "Have we?"

"So who came to my flat?" Sherlock asked softly, staring at the floor. Elspeth reached for his arm but he shook her off impatiently, not looking at her. "You . . . look different." He thought back to Baker Street and looking at the photo of Faith and her father, and how he hadn't realised it wasn't the same woman sitting in the chair opposite him. They looked so similar he barely noticed the differences in appearance. Everything looked fuzzy. It was harder to think. Bill asked him who he was talking to, Mrs Hudson asked what friend, even Elspeth frowned at him when he mentioned being with a client . . . . He covered his mouth with both hands and let out a horrified breath, stumbling backwards.

Culverton was laughing. He wouldn't stop laughing.

Everything went white for a moment. Culverton cackled manically. Sherlock's hands trembled and he balled them into fists, pressing them against his mouth. He shook his head. Culverton kept laughing. Sherlock turned away, bumping into a tray on a stand. There were six scalpels on it.

"Dad," Elspeth said. She grabbed his arm. "What's going on?"

"Watch him," Sherlock said all of a sudden, pointing at Culverton. "He's got a knife! You've got a scalpel! You picked it up from that table." There were only five remaining on the tray. "I saw you take it. Look behind his back!" Culverton was laughing but not laughing, his hands waving in the air as he proved he had nothing in them. "I saw you take it! I _saw_ you!"

He pointed at Culverton again, brandishing the scalpel. Sherlock had taken it from the tray, seemingly unaware of his actions.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," John said. "Ellie, move back. Sherlock, do you want to put that down?"

"Stop laughing at me," Sherlock hissed.

"I'm not laughing!"

"He's not laughing, Sherlock."

"STOP LAUGHING AT ME," Sherlock hollered at the top of his voice, lunging. It all happened very fast after that. He moved forwards. Elspeth panicked. She grabbed Sherlock's arm without thinking, hoping she could get through to him. Sherlock whirled around. Elspeth felt a sharp nick on her cheek, just under her eye, before the pain hit her. An intake of breath passed her lips. Her hand shaking, she reached up to touch her cheek and flinched, her fingers coming away bloody. Sherlock looked down at the scalpel in his hand and saw the tip had blood on it. Elspeth's blood.

He had done that. He'd hurt her. His daughter. His little girl.

Sherlock didn't have the time to process it before John seized his lower arm and turned his shoulder into Sherlock's body, knocking the scalpel out of his hand. John grabbed Sherlock's coat with both hands and slammed him into one of the cabinet doors, shaking him so his head knocked backwards.

"Stop it!" John shouted. "Stop. It. Now! What are you doing?" He slapped Sherlock. " _Wake up,_ look at what you've done to her!" He pointed at Elspeth, who could only stand and stare in quiet shock. She looked like a lost child. John punched him with all his strength and sent Sherlock flying to the floor, bending down to punch him again. "Is this a game? A bloody game? _Look_ at what you did to your _daughter_!" John kicked him again and again and again, only stopping when medical staff rushed in and dragged him back by the arms.

"Please, please no violence," Culverton said. Sherlock braced himself on his right arm and looked at the floor, his face covered in blood and sweat and saliva. "Thank you, Doctor Watson, but I don't think he's a danger anymore. Leave him be."

John breathed heavily. He looked over at Elspeth, but she just stared ahead of herself with an almost blank expression, her eyes brimming over with tears. Blood ran down her cheek, staining her shirt.

"No," Sherlock choked out. "It's . . . it's ok. Let him do what he wants. He's entitled." He raised his head a little, making eye contact with John. "I killed his wife."

"Yes," John said, his voice tight. "You did."

Sherlock looked away slowly, dragging his eyes from John's face. He glanced at Elspeth reluctantly, unable to take his gaze off her when he saw her expression, a blank mask disguising the complete and utter devastation in her eyes. There was blood smeared across her cheek. He gazed at her and saw the young girl he'd met at the foster home, the one who was scared and lost, without anyone to look after her.

"Ellie," Sherlock said. His voice trembled. She didn't look at him. "I'm . . . so sorry."

* * *

Elspeth sat on the hospital bed and stared at the wall, her legs curled up to her chest. Sherlock was down the hall somewhere in another room, and John had been taken away by the police for questioning. The only thing that stopped them from taking her as well was she needed medical attention. Glancing in the mirror, Elspeth looked at the dressing on her cheek, feeling the stitches tug at her skin underneath. She shouldn't have grabbed him the way she did, but then she didn't think he would hurt her, not even accidentally.

Culverton had escorted her to the room himself, insisting she have a private one and apologising profusely. Elspeth suspected it was so she wouldn't go to the press and tell anyone what had happened in his hospital. Not that she wanted to tell anyone.

The hospital pyjamas were on the chair next to the bed. Elspeth glared at them and longed for her own comfortable pair in her own bed at home, but then she wasn't sure where home was anymore. She wasn't welcome at Baker Street, and Mycroft's apartment catered to his tastes and he was hardly ever there anyway.

She wondered where Mycroft was. Lestrade promised to call him, let him know what happened, but no one had come for her yet. It looked like she was going to spend the night in Culverton Smith's hospital. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Elspeth looked up as the door opened, her eyes widening a fraction.

"Expecting someone else?" Moriarty teased, closing the door behind him and strolling forwards. Elspeth watched him, and for once she didn't feel afraid someone would walk in on them. No one was bothered about her. "Dear me, you seem to have got yourself into a bit of trouble." He reached the side of her bed and tugged on her hair, tucking it behind her ear so he got a better view of the dressing on her cheek. His thumb brushed against it. Elspeth recoiled, turning her head away from him. "What happened?"

"My drug addled father happened," Elspeth said in a low voice. "With a scalpel. I might end up with a scar, they don't know for certain yet."

"Still beautiful though," Moriarty said. He grimaced at the hospital pyjamas on the chair and deposited them at the end of the bed before taking a seat, leaning back as he fixed Elspeth with an intense stare. She glowered back at him, slumping against the pillow slightly and letting her legs stretch out in front of her. She didn't know how or why she'd become so relaxed around him. "What, no screams, no shouts, no threats to call security? You're not going to rush off to find John?" The edge of Moriarty's lips tugged into a smirk. Elspeth let out a heavy breath and didn't say anything. "What happened to the little spitfire we all know and love?"

Elspeth rolled her eyes. "You've been stalking me for weeks, watching me all day, bombarding me with texts and calls, and you wonder why I don't scream like a damsel in distress every time you fancy making an appearance?"

"I was hoping for more of a reaction."

"Sorry to disappoint," Elspeth snapped, staring ahead of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Moriarty rise from the chair and approach the bed again. He sat on the edge by her hip, stretching one arm across her lap and resting a hand on her other side as he leaned forwards, and Elspeth looked at him with a steely gaze. She refused to let him think she was afraid. "What are you doing?"

"Just thinking," Moriarty said quietly. He tilted his head to the side and, without thinking, Elspeth mirrored him. She moved back slightly as he leaned in even closer, his hot breathing fanning her face as his eyes drank in her features, lingering on the dressing. "The tough exterior isn't going to fool me, you know, my dear. I _know_ you . . . almost as well as you know yourself."

"You don't know me at all," Elspeth said, feeling breathless. She didn't know if it was Moriarty's proximity or the almost-hypnotic swaying movements of his face, but something stopped her from thinking clearly.

"I know that you're enjoying this," Moriarty said. "I know you've been enjoying this ever snice the rooftop." Elspeth started to protest but he shushed her, pressing a finger to her lips before running it along her jaw line. "You would've told them all by now if you weren't enjoying. You would've told them that _day_ if you were really afraid, but instead you've chosen to keep me as your dirty little secret and you _like_ it."

His lips brushed hers, and Elspeth didn't pull away.

Moriarty gazed at her for a moment before kissing her again, properly, with more intensity. One hand cupped the back of her head as he pulled her even closer, his fingers tangled in her hair, and Elspeth grasped his shirt with both of her hands to do the same with him, feeling bolder than she ever had before. All she could think about was how much she craved human touch, the need to release the pent-up tension between them fuelling the insistency in her kiss. In the back of her mind, Elspeth told herself it was wrong and she shouldn't be doing it, reminding her that Sherlock was just down the hall, injured and hurting emotionally. None of that mattered to her, however, as she pulled away and felt Moriarty's forehead press against hers, their breathing heavy.

"Well," Moriarty murmured. "If you're trying to prove me wrong, you doing a _terrific_ job of it."

Elspeth was quiet. Finally, she admitted, "Maybe I'm done trying to prove you wrong."

* * *

 _Thank you therealjainasolo, boardwalkblue and Adrillian1497 for reviewing!_


	20. Chapter 20

_**20.**_

After being questioned by Lestrade, John returned to the hospital and dropped off his old walking cane, as per Sherlock's request. He didn't know why Sherlock needed it, and he didn't care to find out either. The less John had to do with him the better. It was difficult to look at his friend in that state; the state John had left him in. His left eye was bruised and swollen, the cut above his eyebrow stitched, and John could only imagine the marks hidden beneath the blankets. He told the nurse he was there to say goodbye and she misunderstood, assuring him Sherlock would pull through, but John didn't bother correct her. It would be like a death having to say goodbye to Sherlock for a final time. Another death.

The phone on the bedside table rang just as John turned to leave, the nurse quickly answering it.

"Oh, uh – Doctor Watson?" she called out. "It's for you."

John frowned, then realised there was only one person in England who would have access to a hospital phone. Exasperated, he took the phone from the nurse and put it to his ear.

"Hello, Mycroft."

"There's a car downstairs."

Before long, John was back at 221B Baker Street; the last place he expected to find himself. It had been a long time since he'd been back in the home that started it all, and John almost wished he'd never met that damned Sherlock Holmes. Mary would've been alive then. Rosie would have a mother.

"Uh, what are you doing?" John asked, ducking under a thread of string and noticing Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's chair.

"Have you noticed the kitchen? It's practically a meth lab," Mycroft said. He stood up and looked around while John watched the various strangers clean up around them. "I'm trying to establish exactly what drove Sherlock off the rails." He raised his eyebrows at John. "Any ideas?"

John's eyes swept over the room. "Are these spooks? Are you using spooks now to look after your family? Hang on," he added. "Are they tidying?"

"Sherlock is a security concern. The fact that I'm his brother changes nothing." Mycroft moved to stand by the fireplace. "Why fixate on Culverton Smith? He's had his obsession before, of course, but this goes a bit further than setting a mantrap for Father Christmas. Spending all night talking to a woman who wasn't even there. Telling Elspeth to leave and not come back. None of it makes sense." He looked around, as if only just noticing his niece's absence. "Where is Elspeth? Not with Sherlock, surely?"

"She's in hospital," John said in a tight voice. "Because of Sherlock." He watched Mycroft carefully for any hint of emotion, furious to see none even flicker across the oldest Holmes' face. "Last time we were on the phone, you said the fact that you were his brother made no difference. You said it didn't matter the last time and it wouldn't with Sherlock, so was it the last time? Who were you talking about?"

"Nobody," Mycroft said carefully. "I . . . misspoke."

"You're lying," John said. Mycroft tried to deny that he wasn't, but John refused to believe him. The Holmes family tended to lie. "Sherlock's not your only brother. There's another one, isn't there?" He couldn't help but laugh. "Jesus! A secret brother. What, is he locked up in a tower or something?"

"Mycroft Holmes!" Mrs Hudson shouted, interrupting whatever Mycroft was about to say. "What are all these dreadful people doing in my house?"

"Mrs Hudson," Mycroft said. "I apologise for the interruption. As you know, my brother has embarked on a programme of self-destruction remarkable even by his standards, and I am endeavouring to find out what triggered it."

"And that's all you're looking for? What's on his mind? And you've had all this time?" Mrs Hudson retorted, giggling. "You are – you're so funny, you are! He thinks you're clever, poor old Sherlock, always going on about you. I mean, he knows you're an idiot," she said, putting a hand on John's arm and smiling at him. "But that's ok because you're a lovely doctor, but he has no idea what an idiot you are, Mycroft!"

"Is this merely stream-of-consciousness abuse, or are you attempting to make a point?" Mycroft asked.

"You want to know what's bothering Sherlock? Easiest thing in the world, anyone could do it."

"I know his thought processes better than any other human being, so please try to understand –"

"He's not about thinking, not Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, shaking her head. "No, no, he's more . . . emotional, isn't it? Unsolved case: shoot the wall. Unmade breakfast: karate the fridge. Unanswered question." She glanced at the mantlepiece, then looked at John. "Well, what does he do with anything he can't answer, John, every time?"

John looked at the fireplace, at the pile of letters detailing unsolved cases. "He stabs it."

* * *

Elspeth stood in front of the mirror in her hospital room and carefully peeled back the dressing on her cheek, going against everything the doctor and nurses had told her. It would disturb the healing process, but it would also cause her distress, they said, to see the wound in such a raw state. She didn't cry when she looked at the stitches, the speck of dried blood the nurse hadn't noticed when she was cleaning Elspeth's face, the dark wound that slit diagonally across her upper cheek bone. If it had been a few inches upwards, she could've lost her sight.

"I'll see you soon," Moriarty had murmured before he left, standing behind her and brushing her hair over one shoulder so he could press a kiss to her jawline, grazing the spot it met her neck. Elspeth hadn't said anything. She just closed her eyes and waited for him to leave.

She hated him. At that moment in her life, Elspeth felt like she resented everyone in her life. Mycroft, John, especially Sherlock.

Replacing the dressing, Elspeth moved away from the mirror, checked her phone, and raised her eyebrows when she saw there were no messages or missed calls. She would've hoped Mycroft and John had at least sent a text, but she realised she was at the bottom of their list of priorities. She didn't have a bag or a change of clothes, but Elspeth decided she didn't need either of them. Instead, she took the SIM card from the back of her phone and snapped it in half, leaving the remainders on the hospital bed. She wouldn't need a phone where she was going. No one stopped her as she walked through the hospital corridors, towards the front door, out into the street.

Elspeth doubted anyone would even notice she was gone.

* * *

"You've been ages waking up," Culverton said as Sherlock opened his eyes. "I watched you. It's quite lovely in its way." Sherlock blinked several times, swallowing and looking towards him. "Take it easy. It's ok, I don't want to rush this. You're Sherlock Holmes."

"How did you get in?" Sherlock asked, his voice a whisper.

"Policeman outside, you mean? Come on, can't you guess?"

Sherlock looked at the wooden panel opposite the bed. "Secret door."

"I built this whole wing," Culverton said. "Kept firing the architect and builders so no one wold knew quite how it all fitted together. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know . . . when I get the urge. Like H.H Holmes. Murder castle, but done right. I have a question for you. Why are you here? It's like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me. Why?"

"You know why I'm here," Sherlock said, his eyes flickering up to meet Culverton's.

"I'd like to hear you say it." Culverton smiled. "Say it for me. Please."

Sherlock fixed his gaze on him, speaking with complete determination. "I want you to kill me," he said. Culverton nodded in consideration and moved to the side of the bed, resting his hand very close to Sherlock's. The detective glanced up at the drip stand. "If you increase the dosage four or five times, toxic shock should shut me down without about an hour."

"Then I restore the settings," Culverton said. "Everyone assumes it was a fault, or you just gave up the ghost. You're rather good at this." He took off his jacket, dropping it onto a chair. "Before we start . . ." He undid one cufflink. "Tell me how you feel."

"I feel scared," Sherlock admitted quietly.

"Be more specific. You only get to do this once," Culverton said, chuckling.

"I'm . . . scared of dying," Sherlock said. His mind jumped to Elspeth. "I'm scared of what will happen to Ellie . . . when I'm gone." Culverton removed his other cufflink, pausing in the motion of putting them down and glancing at Sherlock. "I'm scared of what you'll do to her. If you do anything to her."

"Don't worry, Mr Holmes, I'll leave her alone. I wouldn't want to raise suspicion, after all," Culverton said. It was little comfort to Sherlock. "You wanted this, though."

"I have . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off. "Reasons."

"But you don't actually want to die," Culverton said. Sherlock shook his head. "Good." He rolled his sleeves up, smiling down at Sherlock. "Say that for me. Say it."

"I don't want to die," Sherlock said, his voice hollow. The words didn't mean much to him.

"And again."

"I don't want to die," Sherlock repeated. He thought about Elspeth and John, and even Mycroft and his parents and Molly Hooper and Lestrade. That was a lot of people in his life, more than Sherlock seemed to realise, who cared about him. They would miss him when he was gone. John would have Rosie and Elspeth would have Mycroft, and they'd all have each other but they'd disbanded when Sherlock faked his death, so who was to say they wouldn't again?

"Once more for luck," Culverton prompted softly.

"I don't want to die," Sherlock said a third time, tearful. He promised Elspeth he wouldn't leave her. Not again. "I don't." Culverton leaned over him. "I don't want to die."

Culverton's face hovered inches from Sherlock's, his gaze intense. "Lovely," he said as he straightened up again. "Here it comes." He pressed a button on the control panel next to the drip, then pressed a second one repeatedly. "So tell me, why are we doing this? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to hear your confession," Sherlock said, his voice quiet. "I needed to know I was right."

"But why do you need to die?"

"The mortuary. Your favourite room," Sherlock said. "You talk to the dead. You make your confession to them. Why do you do it?"

"Why do I kill?" Culverton sat down. "It's not about hatred or revenge. I'm not a dark person. It's . . . killing human beings . . . it just makes me incredibly happy." He stood up, walking towards the bed again. "You know in films when you see dead people pretending not to be dead and it's just living people lying down? That's not what dead people look like. Dead people look like things. I like to make people into things. Then you can own them." He huffed out a laugh, straightening up. "You know what? I'm getting a little impatient." He pressed a button at the foot of the bed, lowering it to a horizontal position and approaching Sherlock, straightening his gloves. Sherlock watched him with intense anxiety in his eyes, unable to move. "Take a big breath if you want."

He pressed his palm over Sherlock's mouth, then covered his nose with the other hand. Sherlock writhed and struggled beneath him.

"Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage," Culverton continued. "People don't realise how much work goes into it. You have to be careful." Sherlock grabbed at Culverton's lower arm, flailing weakly, trying to dislodge him. He was too weak. "But if you're rich or famous and loved, it's amazing what people are prepared to ignore. There's always someone desperate, about to go missing, and no one wants to suspect murder if it's easier to suspect something else! I just have to ration myself, choose the right heart to stop."

Sherlock felt the cold sweat roll down his forehead, his heart racing in a last attempt to keep him alive.

He thought about Elspeth. He hurt her. He wished he could've been kinder, that he hadn't pushed her away the way he did, but it was all necessary to keep her out of harm's way. Sherlock had to put himself through Hell and pick a fight with a bad guy so John would be there to help, just as he always would be. He was doing it because Mary asked him to.

Sherlock was trying to save his friend, but he'd lost his daughter along the way. He didn't know when it happened, or how, but somehow Elspeth had drifted away from him.

"Please, maintain eye contact," Culverton whispered. "Maintain eye contact. Please. I like to watch it . . . happen."

He stopped struggling long enough to look Culverton in the eye.

Culverton leaned close, his gaze ecstatic as he gazed down at Sherlock and slowly uttered, "And off we pop."

* * *

 _Thank you Bethany, Adrillian1497, boardwalkblue, therealjainasolo, and sophopera for reviewing! I'm so so so sorry for the delay in updating, I had to send my laptop off for repairs and then order a replacement when it turned out they couldn't do anything. On top of that I have a new job and I'm about to start postgraduate studies, but hopefully updates will continue to be somewhat-regular xoxo_


	21. Chapter 21

_**21.**_

Sherlock stopped moving.

The door slammed open, John dropping the fire extinguisher he'd used to break the lock. Without a second thought, he strode across the room and wrapped an arm around Culverton's neck, both men stumbling away from the bed as Sherlock gasped for breath.

"What were you doing to him?" John demanded. "What were you _doing?_ "

"He's in distress, I'm trying to help him!"

John hurled Culverton towards the police officer. "Restrain him now. Do it," he ordered, turning to Sherlock. "What was he doing to you?"

"Suffocating me, overdosing me," Sherlock said, breathless. He pointed towards the drip stand. "Saline." Propping himself up on his elbow, Sherlock reached for the panel on the side and held down the button to raise the head of the bed. "Obviously I got Nurse Cornish to switch the bags. She's a big fan, you know. Loves my blog."

"You're ok?" John asked.

"No, of course I'm not ok. Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly I've been off my tits for weeks. What kind of a doctor are you?" Sherlock sat up, then settled against the pillows. "I got my confession though, didn't I?"

"I don't recall making any confession," Culverton said. He pulled himself free from the police officers and took a step towards Sherlock, but John stopped him from getting too close. "What would I be confessing to?"

"You can listen to it later," Sherlock said.

"But there is no confession to listen to!" Culverton insisted. "Mr Holmes, I don't know if this is relevant, but we found three potential recording devices in the pockets of your cot. All your possessions were searched."

"Must be something comforting about the number three," Sherlock said softly. "People always give up after three."

He raised his gaze to John, wearing a slight smile as he waited. Realisation dawned on John; he sighed in exasperation.

"You cock," he said. "Utter, utter cock." John picked up the walking cane he'd dropped off earlier that evening, holding it up for Sherlock to see. Turning the top like he was told to, John pulled the handle and revealed a small recording device inside, the light glowing a bright red to indicate it was on. The light went off when John pulled the recording device out. "Two weeks ago?"

"Three."

"I'm that predictable?"

"No." Sherlock smiled. "I'm just a cock."

* * *

Elspeth woke up to the feeling of someone shaking her, rolling over and seeing Bill hovering over her with an uncertain expression on his face. When she opened her eyes, he relaxed, his shoulders slumping and the frown disappearing from his face.

"Thought you weren't gonna wake up. You feeling alright?" he asked.

Raising a hand, Elspeth rubbed her eyes and stared drowsily at Bill, her mind feeling fuzzy. The words were caught in her throat. She wanted to tell him that she felt relaxed and euphoric, like her worries and fears had been washed away, the weight gone from her shoulders. Her whole body was weighed down by an invisible force but she didn't feel like she was trapped. Elspeth felt like she was in the space between dreaming and waking, not quite lucid enough to distinguish reality from her thoughts. It was the most relaxed she had felt in years.

"I'm good," Elspeth said with a pleasant smile. " _Really_ good. This stuff . . . it's amazing." She ran her hand down her face and sighed. "Sorry for punching you. I understand now."

Bill frowned. "Understand what?"

"Why you use this stuff. You're right, I didn't complain when you were giving it to me." Elspeth laughed. "I'm not complaining now either."

"Yeah, well, you gotta take it easy. The 'ighs are good, but the lows . . ." Bill's voice trailed off. He shook his head. "You don't wanna get low on this stuff, Els."

Elspeth shrugged. "So let's never get low."

"Els . . ."

"No one's noticed I'm gone," Elspeth said. She sat up and Bill shifted over so he was sitting on the mattress next to her, the two of them tucked away in the corner of the abandoned building. They were surrounded by strangers in similar, or worse, states, some of them barely stirring from their spots on the floor. No one asked questions. No one came looking for any of them. It was the perfect place to disappear. "I doubt they even care. I'm just . . . an inconvenience right now. No one notices me, no one listens to me." She blinked away the tears, drawing her knees closer to her chest. "It's like I've been erased from their lives."

"I wish you wouldn't do that," Bill muttered. Elspeth glanced at him. "Make me feel sorry for you. I can't say no to 'elping you out now, can I?"

"You're a good friend, Bill."

"You're only saying that 'cause I 'elp you get 'igh," Bill said. In his mind, he was doing her a favour by being the one who took care of her. Elspeth wasn't like the others in the room, not really, and he knew what he was doing. So in a way, Bill was making sure Elspeth didn't hurt herself, deliberately or by accident. "You absolutely sure about this?"

"You ask me that every time," Elspeth teased. She watched Bill carefully, her eyes following his every movement, taking in the concentration his face. She didn't know why he insisted on doing it all himself, thinking it couldn't be that difficult. "I'm sure."

She rolled up her sleeve, letting the warm sensation flood her once more. Laying back on the mattress, Elspeth closed her eyes. Bill watched her carefully for a few seconds, and when he was content she was alright for the meantime, he rolled his sleeve up also. A few minutes later, he lay next to her and gazed up at the ceiling, one arm behind his head.

"You doing ok, Els?"

Elspeth smiled. "Yeah," she said. "I'm amazing."

* * *

"I had, of course, several other backup plans. Trouble is, I couldn't remember what they were," Sherlock said, sitting in 221B with his dressing gown on over his clothes. The room was cleaner, all evidence of Culverton Smith removed, and it was almost like it had never been in a state of disrepair. "And, of course, I hadn't really anticipated that I'd hallucinated meeting his daughter." Behind him, Mary reminded John that Sherlock had only taken the drugs so John would help him. She wasn't there; not really. "Still a bit troubled by the daughter. Did seem very real, and she gave me information I couldn't have acquired elsewhere."

"But she was ever here?" John asked.

"Interesting, isn't it? I have theorised before that if one could attenuate to every available date stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost everything. Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind. I'm intrigued," Sherlock said.

"Speaking of daughters . . ." John's voice trailed off. They'd discovered Elspeth had gone missing from her hospital room when Sherlock was discharged, her SIM card snapped in half, but so far Sherlock had made no attempt in finding her.

"Oh yes, Rosie," Sherlock said. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking of Rosie . . . I can go twenty minutes without supervision." He forced a smile. Everyone was taking in turns to look after him, making sure he didn't take any more drugs. "I should see her soon. Shouldn't I?"

John was about to tell him it was Rosie he was concerned about, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. "Yeah, sure."

"Oh, by the way, the recordings will probably be inadmissible," Sherlock added. "Technically, it's entrapment so it might get thrown out as evidence. Not that it matters. Apparently he can't stop confessing." He laughed a little, then noticed John didn't share in his good humour. "Are you ok?"

"Uh . . . no, no, I'm not ok," John admitted. "I'm _not_ ok. I'm never going to be ok, but we'll just have to accept that. It is what it is, and what it is . . . is shit." Sherlock didn't say anything; he simply nodded in understanding. John took in a deep breath, lowering his head before saying, "You didn't kill Mary. Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No one made her do it. No one could ever make her do anything, but the point is, you did not kill her."

Sherlock lowered his head for a moment. He'd been waiting to hear those words since the day Mary died. "In saving my life, she conferred a value on it," he said, hesitating. "It is a currency I do not know how to spend."

"It is what it is," John said. Sherlock nodded. "Uh – I'm tomorrow, six to ten. I'll see you then." He turned to leave, but stopped dead on the landing at the sound of a text alert. A very familiar text alert. There was only one person who had a personalised text alert on Sherlock's phone, but it wasn't possible because Irene Adler had died years ago . . . or so John had been led to believe. Suddenly, John realised there was only reason Irene Adler – now apparently alive – could be texting Sherlock. "Happy birthday."

Sherlock blinked. "Thank you, John. That's . . . very kind of you."

"Never knew when your birthday was," John said. "Seriously, we're not going to talk about this? I mean, how does it work? You and the Woman." He couldn't help but grin. "Do you go to a discreet Harvester sometimes? Is there a night of passion in High Wycombe?"

"Oh, for God's sake, I don't text her back," Sherlock retorted.

"Why not? You bloody moron! She's _out_ there and she _likes_ you, and she's alive. Do you have any idea how lucky you?" The teasing dropped from John's voice, replaced with anger and hurt. "Yes, she's a lunatic, she's a criminal, she's _insanely_ dangerous – trust you to fall for a sociopath – but she's . . . just text her back. High Wycombe is better than you are currently equipped to understand."

"I once caught a triple poisoner in High Wycombe," Sherlock commented. "As I think I have explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people –"

"Would complete you as a human being," John said. "Just text her. Phone her. Do something while there's still a chance, because that chance doesn't last forever. Trust me, Sherlock, it's gone before you know it." He paused, looking over at Mary. She'd been there the whole time, watching, listening, commenting, but John was the only one who saw her. "She was wrong about me. Mary. She thought that if you put yourself in harm's way, I'd rescue you or something. But I didn't. Not until she told me to. And that's how it works. That's what you're missing. She taught me to be the man she already thought I was. Get yourself a piece of that."

"Forgive me," Sherlock said "But you are doing yourself a disservice. I have known many people in this world but made few friends, and I can safely say –"

"I cheated on her," John said. "No clever comeback?" He turned to the ghost of his wife, tears in his eyes. "I cheated on you, Mary. There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I'd been playing with Rosie. And this girl just smiled at me. That's all it was, a smile. We text constantly. We texted constantly. You want to know when? Every time you left the room, that's when. When you were feeding our daughter, when you were stopping her from crying, that's when. That's all it was. Texting. But I wanted more." It hurt to admit it all out loud, to tell Mary how despicable he was thinking about another woman while she cared for their daughter, but he had to get it off his chest. "And do you know something? I still do. I'm not the man you thought I was, I'm not that guy. I never could be. But that's the point. That's the whole point."

Mary gazed at him, smiling even as tears filled her eyes. Sherlock watched silently, waiting, looking the same direction as John even though he couldn't see Mary the way he could. He understood, though.

"Who you thought I was," John said. "Is the man who I want to be."

"Well then, John Watson." Mary smiled widely and fondly, like she used to when they first met and were in love, before the secrecy and the lies and the hurt. "Get the hell on with it."

John stared ahead of him for a long time. Even after Mary was gone. He lowered his head, crying for the first time in ages.

"It's ok," Sherlock said softly, walking over to him. He raised his arm tentatively, then put it around John, pulling his friend closer.

"It's not ok," John sobbed.

"No." Sherlock held his best friend. "But it is what it is."

* * *

 _Thank you therealjainasolo and Adrillian1497 for reviewing!_


	22. Chapter 22

_**22.**_

"So Molly's going to meet us at this . . . cake place," Sherlock said, not bothering to hide his contempt at the idea.

"Well, it's your birthday. Cake is obligatory," John said.

"Suppose sugar high's some sort of substitute."

"Behave."

Sherlock nodded. "Right then. You know," he began tentatively. "It's not my place to say but . . . it was just texting. People text. Even I text. Her, I mean. Woman. Bad idea – I try not to, but, you know, sometimes." He pulled in a breath, noticing John's unhappy frown. "It's not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling, from time to time, that we might all just be human."

"Even you?" John asked him.

"No. even you."

John gazed at Sherlock for a moment, then turned to the door. "Cake?"

"Cake," Sherlock said in agreement. "Oh, um . . ." He strode across the room to the cabinet by the dining table, opening a drawer and rummaging through, ignoring John's questioning at his odd behaviour. There was something he needed to find, a slight smile spreading across his face when he straightened up, pulling the deerstalker hat on over his hair. John laughed. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. I wear the damn hat." He kicked the drawer shut. "Isn't that right, Mary?"

Startled, John stopped and looked around the room. Normally he saw Mary sitting in chairs, leaning against the table, talking as if she had always been there. Now all he saw was an empty room. Sighing, John realised it didn't hurt quite as much as it used to.

It wasn't until they were in the cab that John decided to bring up the elephant in the room.

"So," he said, determinedly avoiding eye contact with Sherlock. "Think Ellie will be joining us today?"

"I imagine so," Sherlock said. "She understands the sentiment of celebrating birthdays much more than I do."

"We're just going to ignore the fact that Ellie is missing, and has been for almost a week now. Ok then," John said. He couldn't hide the sarcasm any more. "Why are you not more concerned about this, Sherlock? She's clearly not thinking straight and emotional and vulnerable, and whenever Ellie goes missing, bad things happen – usually to Ellie. Not to mention the two of you didn't exactly part on good terms."

"Yes, thank you for the reminder, John," Sherlock replied with a bite in his voice. "Believe it or not, am sober enough to notice my daughter's absence."

"So, what are we going to do?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," Sherlock repeated. He didn't look at John; he just stared straight ahead. "Based on previous experiences, when Ellie doesn't want to be found she makes sure she isn't found, and she doesn't need me smothering her when she's an adult." John glanced at his friend, but Sherlock turned to face the window instead. "Ellie is an adult now. She knows how to look after herself."

"Except she doesn't, does she? Ellie is a walking self-destruct button and she'll hurt herself in one way or another," John said. "Tell Mycroft, you know what lengths he'll go to if he needs to find her. Christ – tell Lestrade! He's not completely useless. Just don't let Ellie get herself into more trouble." When Sherlock didn't respond or make any attempt of contacting someone who could help them, John leaned back in his seat and narrowed his eyes, watching Sherlock. He'd picked up on the tension between him and Elspeth, like there was something unresolved lingering just below the surface of their already strained relationship. "What's going on with you and Ellie? Things have been weird ever since – well, since the plane."

"Define weird," Sherlock said. He wasn't denying what John had said, but he wasn't agreeing with it either. The last thing he wanted was to admit there was something wrong between him and Elspeth, that the tension had grown so strong other people were beginning to notice. He couldn't pin point the exact moment when it happened, but something had been wrong ever since he'd got on that damn plane. If he wanted to be incredibly petty, Sherlock would've blamed Mycroft for making him get on it in the first place.

"There's tension, Sherlock," John said. "A hell of a lot of tension. You two used to be close as anything, now you barely even look at each other. You –" He stopped. It was an unspoken agreement that neither of them addressed what had happened in the hospital, but John realised the longer they ignored it, the worst it became. "You didn't mean to _hurt_ her, she'll understand once things have settled –"

"I may not have meant to, but I did," Sherlock interrupted. "I am not a good man, John, I don't pretend to be. There is one thing I swore to myself, however, and that is I would never allow anything or anyone to hurt Ellie. I have broken that promise several times over, but I never thought I would be one who contributed to it."

"You didn't mean to, though," John said, at a loss for words. Sherlock looked out of the window and didn't say anything. "It was a mistake."

"I never should have put Ellie in danger like that. There are no excuses for what I did."

"No, but it is what is," John echoed Sherlock's earlier comforting words. He hoped it would have the same effect on his friend as it did him, but Sherlock didn't move, still staring at the passing traffic. He was almost like a statue. John looked at him out of the corner of his eye but couldn't bring himself to push the matter anymore, knowing it would just send Sherlock further into his shell. "Please . . . just let someone know Ellie is missing. Just in case."

Sherlock refused to speak. It had crossed his mind, but Elspeth was an adult and she could take of herself. She had made it clear to everyone she didn't want to be found.

* * *

Elspeth lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling, one arm propped behind her head as she tried to work out how many days had passed since she left the hospital. She couldn't know for certain. It felt like time moved differently, minutes turning to hours and days bleeding into weeks, no way of checking the date or time. When she wasn't sinking into a drug-addled doze, Elspeth was convincing Bill to help her with the next hit. Rolling onto her side, she readied herself to convince him for another one, huffing when she realised he was nowhere to be seen.

Sitting up, she looked around for a few seconds. The room was mostly empty with indistinguishable bodies sprawled across dirty mattresses, the only noises being the occasional shuffle or cough or groan coming from the back of drug addled teenager's throats. She didn't know anyone or trust them.

Elspeth bit her lip. She didn't know when Bill had left, or how long he would be. All she knew was she couldn't wait that long.

"Screw it," she muttered, reaching under the mattress for the gear. She'd watched Bill do it countless times and she'd memorised the process, her sleeve already rolled up in preparation. It couldn't be that difficult.

She started to wonder if she was really right to have lectured Sherlock. It made Elspeth feel like she was hypocrite doing exactly what she'd admonished her for, but as she slid the needle into the crook of her arm, she couldn't have cared less for what she said or did. Besides, it was like she had said to Bill; no one would notice, or care. Elspeth was an inconvenience to Sherlock and Mycroft, to John, to anyone who came into her life. Without her phone, Elspeth hadn't even heard from Moriarty. A smile played on her lips at the thought – she never would've thought there would come a day where she missed Jim Moriarty.

As the high washed over her, Elspeth leaned back, propped up on her elbows and letting her head roll back. The content feeling returned, the weight lifted from her shoulders. The heavy thudding of her heartbeat against her chest slowed until it was barely there, nothing more than a gentle thrum that fell in time with her breathes, and she let herself fall into the mattress with her limbs sprawled out, too heavy to move. Elspeth felt odd – not like the previous times, as though something had gone wrong. She tried to move onto her side but couldn't. Closing her eyes, Elspeth swallowed against the dryness in her throat and ignored the weight pressing her down, hoping that Bill would return soon. She would be ok. Elspeth was sure she would be ok. Bill wouldn't let anything happen to her.

She didn't hear Bill come back, or feel him lean over her and shake both her shoulders. She barely opened her eyes, even when Bill patted her cheek with the palm of his hand to get some sort of response from her.

"Come on, Els, wake up," he said desperately. "Open your eyes, Els."

Elspeth said something under her breath, incoherent. Bill pulled away slightly and glanced to the side, noticing the used needle on the mattress beside her. He stared at it for a few seconds as realisation dawned on him. He swore under his breath, shook Elspeth again, and tried to get her to wake up properly. Her eyes opened for a second.

"Yes, yes, open your eyes, Els," Bill said. "Your dad's gonna kill me if you die."

She closed her eyes again, her breathing strained. Swearing again, Bill struggled to lift Elspeth to her feet, quickly discovering she wasn't going to stand up on her own. No one helped him. The few open eyes amongst the room merely watched with curiosity and Bill was forced to wrap his arms around her, holding Elspeth as close as he could. Her feet dragged along the floor, her legs slumping and immobile. Finally, at a loss for what to do, Bill hooked his arms under Elspeth's legs and picked her up. He held her the best he could, staggering out of the room with her body feeling heavier and heavier. There was a hospital nearby. Bill was certain of it. If he could get her there, she would be alright.

* * *

"No Elspeth?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock glared at his brother. He was the only one there so far. "What are you doing here?"

"It's your birthday, I'm obliged to attend any celebrations you may have. Our parents send their best wishes, of course," Mycroft said, his upper lip curling. "They would've come, of course, were they not on another cruise. I did, however, expect Elspeth to be in attendance. It is your birthday after all."

"Ellie's missing," John said. Sherlock turned his glare to him. "Don't look at me like that, Sherlock, it's the truth and you know it. She left the hospital and she hasn't got her phone, and we have no way of getting in contact with or finding her."

"When Ellie doesn't want to be found –"

"She won't be found, yeah, yeah, I got it," John interrupted. "Have you all forgotten Ellie is emotionally and physically vulnerable with a tendency to self-destruct at the slightest inconvenience to her life? She could be doing anything with anyone – god knows where!"

Mycroft took in a long breath, lowering his eyes for a moment. "I agree with John," he said eventually. "Perhaps we should put more of an effort into finding Elspeth, particularly if she's in a vulnerable state."

John nodded, relieved someone was listening to him. He glanced at Sherlock, but the younger Holmes brother didn't say a word. He had hoped Sherlock would express more concern for his missing daughter, but no matter how hard John tried, he couldn't get a reaction from him. In the back of his mind, John wondered what it would take for Sherlock to be worried about Elspeth, and whether the worst really did have to happen to bring the two back together.

"Molly should be here soon," John said in an attempt to lighten the conversation. "She's bringing Rosie and we can have a proper birthday celebration. For once." He smiled. "I've always wondered when your birthday is, Sherlock. I don't know why you're so secretive about it."

"To avoid social functions like these," Sherlock muttered under his breath. His took his phone from his pocket when it started to ring and frowned, answering it. "Sherlock Holmes." He stopped, listening to the voice on the other end. The colour drained from his cheeks. "I'll be there right away."

"Be where?" John asked. Sherlock stuffed his phone away and rose to his feet, snatching his coat from the back of the chair. "What's happened?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. He stood up. "What has happened?"

"Ellie is in the hospital." Sherlock buttoned up his coat and wound his scarf around the neck. "I need to get there now."

"Hang on, we'll come too," John said hastily, grabbing his coat and taking his phone out of his pocket to let Molly know about the change of plans. He didn't think the worst would happen. He never thought Elspeth would end up in hospital. "What happened to Ellie? Why is she in hospital? Has she had some sort of accident? Been hurt?" He would never forgive himself if something terrible happened to Elspeth, especially when they could've been out looking for her. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"She's been taking drugs," Sherlock said, rushing out of the door without so much as a second glance at his friend or brother. "Ellie's in hospital because she's overdosed."

* * *

 _Thank you therealjainasolo, That's Balderdash, Adrillian1497, and boardwalkblue for reviewing!_


	23. Chapter 23

_**23.**_

Bill waited anxiously in the hospital corridor, sitting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and leaning his elbows against his knees, his chin resting on his interlocked fingers. Elspeth had been whisked into a room and the door was shut, and another nurse took Elspeth's details so they could get in contact with Sherlock. He tried to tell them as much as he could without getting himself into trouble; the last thing Bill wanted was for the police to turn up.

The double doors at the end of the corridor burst open, Sherlock storming in. Mycroft and John closely followed, and Bill jumped to his feet. He opened his mouth – to apologise, explain, promise he'd been looking after Elspeth the best he could – when Sherlock's fist swung towards him, colliding with his nose. Seconds later, Bill found himself pinned against the wall with Sherlock looming over him, his hand tangled in the front of Bill's shirt. His eyes shone with fury.

"I swear if you have caused permanent damage or hurt her in any way –"

"I took my eyes off 'er for a few minutes, I promise!" Bill insisted. "I've been looking after 'er –"

"By suppling her with _drugs_?" Sherlock demanded, shaking Bill so hard his head smacked against the wall. "She could _die_ all because of you!"

"Sherlock, let him go," John said, forcing himself between his friend and Bill. He pushed against Sherlock's chest and stood in the middle, looking from one to the other. "I'm not defending him – Christ knows I want to punch his stupid face in right now – but no one forced Ellie to take those drugs, no one made her overdose." He glanced at Bill. "You said you were looking after her, right? You were keeping an eye on her, making sure she didn't do anything stupid?"

Bill shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Well I – I made sure she didn't take too much – I was the one who did it for 'er so she didn't –"

"You were the one who did it for her," Sherlock repeated. His voice was low and calm. Too calm. He raised his head and fixed Bill with a cold stare, his lips pulling back into a snarl as he advanced. "It wasn't enough for you to supply drugs, you had to _inject_ her as well?"

"Woah, woah, woah," John said, quickly pushing Sherlock back.

"Control yourself, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He grabbed his brother by the arm and yanked him away with more strength than John realised the older Holmes sibling possessed. "Do you want to be removed from the premises?"

"Get him out of my sight," Sherlock said. "Before I do something I regret."

"Get out of here, now," John said to Bill, who didn't need to be told twice. His nose bleeding and his cheeks flushed, he raced out of the corridor. The doors swung shut behind him. Inhaling deeply, John turned and leaned against the wall, watching Mycroft restrain Sherlock as he murmured something barely audible in his brother's ear. Whatever Mycroft said seemed to work; Sherlock shook him off, but remained where he was. "It isn't his fault, Sherlock. He shouldn't have done what he did but no one forced Ellie to take those drugs."

"I shouldn't have let her go," Sherlock said quietly. He approached the window of Elspeth's room and tried to peer through the blinds, but couldn't see a thing. "I should've told someone she was missing, this could've been avoided."

"She'll be ok," John said. "Ellie is strong, she'll pull through."

"Elspeth is an idiot," Mycroft scoffed. He paused, then added, "John is right. She's stubborn. Maybe even more so than you, Sherlock."

Their reassurances did nothing to ease Sherlock's concern, and soon the three of them were gathered around Elspeth's bed, watching her with eyes like hawks. Sherlock sat by her side and leaned forwards, his fingers pressed together with his elbows resting on his knees, staring like he was afraid she would disappear if he blinked. Mycroft spent most of the time on his phone, sending messages, ignoring phone calls, glancing up at Sherlock every few seconds. John drank endless cups of tea and got them for Mycroft, who thanked him robotically every time, and Sherlock, who just let the teas go cold. His attention was entirely on Elspeth. He watched her struggle to breathe and her fingers twitch every few seconds, her eyes screwing tighter shut like she was having a bad dream. Sherlock remembered – just about – waking up in hospital beds after particularly bad nights spent in worse company.

"Now you understand," Mycroft said. Sherlock glanced at his brother. "Why our parents asked me to look after you."

"I never thought Ellie would be in this situation," Sherlock said in a low voice.

"Are you surprised? This isn't the first time Elspeth has dabbled with addiction," Mycroft said. Sherlock's lips pressed together in a tight line. "And it certainly isn't the first time she's followed you in your self-destructive tendencies. As you know, all Elspeth has ever wanted in life is to be just like you."

"Not to the point where she could potentially kill herself," Sherlock said.

"She'll be ok," John said. "You heard the doctor, she got here in time. The worst is over."

"No, it isn't," Sherlock said, shaking his head. "This is just the beginning. Withdrawal is hard, physically and mentally, and she's going to live her entire life with substance abuse problems. One more time, one more overdose, could push her over the edge . . ." He spoke from experience, remembering it well. The long days and even longer nights, the shaking, the sweat coating his forehead, the _craving_ for just one more hit. He'd lashed out a lot, mostly at Mycroft. "We'll have to keep a close eye on her. A very close eye."

"I'll have her belongings collected and returned to Baker Street," Mycroft said. "They'll be there before she is discharged."

Sherlock nodded once, still not looking away from Elspeth. She would wake up soon. He was grateful to the doctors and nurses for looking after her, and even a tiny part of him was grateful to Bill for getting her to the hospital in time. Not that he regretted punching him.

"Do you think –" John began, then paused for a second. "Do you think she did it on purpose?"

"Tried to kill herself, you mean?" Mycroft asked bluntly, addressing the elephant in the room. They'd all thought it; wondering if Elspeth meant to overdose. "We can't know for certain."

"Should we . . . ask? When she wakes up?" John asked.

"No doubt a psychiatrist will address the issue with her," Sherlock said. "She may choose to talk to us, she may not."

"You Holmes' seem to have an issue with actually talking to people," John said. He couldn't be certain, but it almost seemed like Mycroft smiled slightly at that comment. "She's not alone, Sherlock. Neither are you. We're here."

"Thank you," Sherlock said softly, under his breath.

* * *

It was late when Elspeth woke up, her eyes flickering open and a panicked breath passing through her lips. All she remembered was the heaviness pressing down on her as everything went dark, but now she saw bright lights and white walls, feeling scratchy sheets beneath her hands as she scrambled for something to cling to. A voice – a familiar voice – said her name in a hushed tone, hands holding her as the panic swept over. Elspeth gulped deep breathes and looked around, taking everything in.

Hospital. She was in hospital, she realised first. Not Culverton Smith's, a different one she didn't know. In one corner, John was sleeping with his head in his hand. In the other, Mycroft was upright in the chair and dozing, his head resting against the side. Elspeth looked to her side and saw Sherlock, holding her, keeping her steady.

"Dad," she whispered, her throat sore. It felt like someone had rubbed sandpaper against it. "Where – what happened?"

Sherlock frowned. "I thought you should tell me that."

Elspeth blinked and bit her lip. "I – I just . . ." Tears sprung to her eyes. "I just wanted to forget for a little bit. It felt like it was the only way I could take the pain away, even if it was just for a couple of hours. I didn't know what else to do."

"I know," Sherlock said. Elspeth glanced at him. "I understand. You do it once and it takes the pain away, you feel invincible for a few hours. But then it fades away and you take a bit more to last longer, to make you feel even better, and the next time you take even more still. Each time you crash it feels worse than before and soon you take just a bit too much, and you end up in hospital. Or worse." He sighed. Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, Elspeth reached out with a shaking hand and grasped Sherlock's, clinging to him like her life depended on it. "You start getting desperate. You make bad decisions and choices, you do whatever it takes to get that next hit."

"I never – I didn't –" Elspeth stuttered. She was about to say that she didn't do anything stupid for the next hit, but then she couldn't remember for certain. "Bill wouldn't have . . . he looked after me."

"He shouldn't have needed to," Sherlock said. "You never should've been there in the first place."

"Where else was I supposed to go?" Elspeth asked. She pulled her hand away from Sherlock's. "You kicked me out, Dad. I stayed with Mycroft and then the whole hospital thing happened and I just didn't know where to go. Bill was a friend, my only friend, and he noticed me when no one else did." She blinked the tears away, staring up at the ceiling. "All I needed was someone to notice me. Actually notice me. I needed someone to know I was there and listen to me and actually _look_ at me for once because I have never felt _so_ alone." Elspeth couldn't stop the tears from falling, hot on her cheeks, and suddenly Sherlock understood it all. He'd spent weeks wondering why she was pulling away from him, only to realise he had been doing the same to her, neither of them willing to let go of their stubborn ways in order to reach out to the other. "We're all hurting, Dad, but no one has thought to ask me how I am. Not once."

Elspeth stared determinedly at the ceiling and wiped the tears away, pressing her lips together in a tight line. She wanted nothing more than to tell him about Moriarty. She was ready to open the damn and tell Sherlock that he was alive and planning something, and she was falling deeper and deeper into his words, getting even more tangled into his web. Elspeth didn't care about the consequences anymore. She just didn't know how long she could keep it quiet.

Sherlock gazed at his daughter. Silently, he stood up and sat on the edge of the hospital bed, reaching out to wrap an arm around Elspeth's shoulders. She closed her eyes and leaned against Sherlock, burying her face in his chest as she sobbed quietly. Soon the two of them were sitting side by side on the small hospital bed, Sherlock holding his daughter close while she cried.

He hated that Elspeth put herself in that position. He hated himself even more for driving her to it, but still Sherlock was relieved that Elspeth was still alive. It wasn't going to be an easy recovery, but she was alive. He felt the scratchy material of Elspeth's dressing on her cheek against his chest and felt a twinge of guilt, hating himself for hurting her that way. Eventually, Elspeth stopped crying but she didn't stop shaking. Her fingers clutched the blanket, clenching and unclenching.

"What now?" Elspeth asked.

"You'll be kept in for a few days more," Sherlock said. "They'll need to monitor you, refer you to a psychiatrist. Lestrade may come talk to you."

"And then?"

"Mycroft said he'll have your belongings returned to Baker Street. If that's what you want."

Elspeth nodded. "I didn't want to leave. Not really. But you were so certain I had to and I didn't know what to do . . . Mycroft was really nice, letting me stay with him. I know he doesn't really like visitors."

"Living with Mycroft," Sherlock said, grimacing. "I can't think of anything worse."

"I spent most of it outside the flat. I think I just got in the way most of the time, but he tried to hide it," Elspeth said. She smiled a little. "Mycroft has been a pretty great uncle, actually. Even when I got in the way and made a mess, he didn't say anything. He was just there for me. As far as uncles go, I would say Mycroft is alright."

Sherlock glanced at his brother, then begrudgingly admitted, "There are worse relatives to have."

"We're kind of a messed-up family," Elspeth said. "Aren't we?"

"I always thought we were completely normal," Sherlock said. "Until I met other people. A dreadful mistake, really, I never should've let mother introduce us to the other kids."

"Then you would've just had Mycroft for company." She grinned. "I can't think of anything worse." Curling a bit closer to Sherlock, Elspeth felt his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek. "We're going to be ok, aren't we?"

His arm tightening around her, Sherlock said, "I hope so, Ellie. I hope so."

* * *

 _Thank you Sophie, Adrillian1497, That's Balderdash, Guest, boardwalkblue, shortfurball20, and Sophie for reviewing!_


	24. Chapter 24

_**24.**_

Sherlock could barely sit still in his armchair, drumming his fingers, throwing his head back and sighing loudly every few seconds. John glanced at him over Rosie's head; he was feeding her in the kitchen of Baker Street, where Mrs Hudson had kindly been looking after her. He could understand why Sherlock was fidgeting so much. Elspeth's belongings had been returned to her room, courtesy of Mycroft's men, and it wouldn't be long before she joined them, her stay at the hospital coming to an end. The doctor had talked Sherlock through the recovery process, but it was one he already knew well, and never wished upon his own daughter. Both Mycroft and Sherlock had done a sweep of their respective homes, then reluctantly searched her bag and pockets for any further signs of drug abuse. Suddenly, Sherlock realised why Mycroft went to such lengths when they were growing up.

Both Baker Street and Sherlock were clean, John came by on a day-to-day basis to see how his friend was and to assist in any crimes that had taken place, and Elspeth's room was set up like she'd never even left in the first place. Now all they needed was for Elspeth to come home.

"She'll be here soon," John said. "She probably tipped the taxi driver to drive her the long way so she could make her dramatic entrance."

Sherlock smiled a little, then straightened up when he heard a taxi pull up outside. Rising from his chair, he approached the window, pulled the curtain back a little, and watched Elspeth climb out of the cab. She said something to the driver, smiled weakly, and took her overnight bag from him when he removed it from the boot. She was just making polite conversation. His eyes darting to the living room door, Sherlock took a step back, then hesitated.

"You can go open the front door, you know," John prompted.

He didn't wait a second more. In a few long strides, Sherlock had crossed the room and was making his way down the stairs, reaching the front door just as Elspeth touched the step in front of 221B Baker Street.

"You made me jump," Elspeth said when the door opened.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to," Sherlock said. "Let me take your bag."

"You don't –" Elspeth cut herself off, looking to the side for a moment as she drew in a deep breath. Sherlock had expected irritability from her, but he couldn't walk around on eggshells in case she reacted badly to something he said. Sighing, Elspeth looked up again and continued in a softer tone, "You don't need to treat me any different, I'm fine."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, you're not."

Elspeth glanced up at him then. She looked awful; unwell. She had little colour in her face – her cheeks were tinged pink from standing outside, but even that was fading as they spoke – and Sherlock noticed the beads of sweat on her forehead, her cracked lips, her unwashed hair. Elspeth's hands clenched into tights fists to stop them from shaking, but it just drew attention to the way she was struggling. She glared up at Sherlock defiantly, her chin jutted out, but he saw the tears beginning to well up, even if she refused to acknowledge them. Finally, Sherlock stepped to the side and held the door open, allowing Elspeth to drag her bag inside. Neither of them said a word as Sherlock walked up the stairs and Elspeth followed, the silence torn between comfortable and tense.

"Hey, look who's back," John said cheerfully when he saw Elspeth. He got up from his seat and gave her a warm hug, noticing how skinny she was when he wrapped his arms around her. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a bus," Elspeth said with a wary smile.

"Well, you look good," John said, a poor attempt at complimenting her. Elspeth's smile faded but she didn't say anything, instead glancing over at Rosie, who was watching with open curiosity. "Yeah, she's getting pretty big now. You want to say hi?"

"Uh, maybe it's best if I –"

"She's missed you. Hold on a sec."

Sherlock took Elspeth's bag, and that time she didn't argue with him. Feeling her legs shake, Elspeth sat on the sofa and watched John unstrap Rosie from her highchair. She bit her lip. What if she dropped Rosie because her hands trembled? What if Rosie took one look at her, saw her scar, and started screaming? Anxiety blossomed in her chest, her stomach twisting uncomfortably as John approached. Sitting next to her, he settled Rosie on Elspeth's lap and waited until they were both comfortable with each other, noticing the way Elspeth tensed slightly. Sherlock watched his daughter like a hawk. He noticed the way she hesitated to hold Rosie and how her hands flitted between holding her too tight and not holding her close enough.

Rosie settled in Elspeth's lap, then gazed up at her. Elspeth's heart skipped a beat. After a moment, Rosie beamed, grabbed a handful of Elspeth's hair, and tugged.

"Ow," Elspeth said, laughing and untangling Rosie's hand. "Nice to know she's getting stronger."

"It's her way of saying hello," John said. "Told you she missed you."

Elspeth held Rosie a bit closer, her grip relaxing. "Yeah, I missed her too," she murmured. She looked around the living room, and Sherlock could see the way she focused on the walls, as if expecting the photos and papers of Culverton Smith to return suddenly. She'd seen on the news he'd admitted everything; it sent a shiver down her spine every time she thought about him. "You redecorated, then."

Sherlock also glanced around, grimacing. "I thought it bordered on obsession. Didn't want people to get the wrong idea."

Elspeth smiled. It was the first genuine smile on her face since she'd got out of the taxi. "Yeah, it looks better this way. Looks . . . normal."

"That's not a word I've heard in either of your vocabulary's," John scoffed. He smiled again at Elspeth. "It's good to have you back, Ellie."

"It's good to be back," Elspeth said. She couldn't tell who she was trying to convince.

* * *

"You're off now?" Mycroft asked Lady Smallwood, both of them pulling on their coats. "I won't see you for a week?"

"Just spending it at home," Lady Smallwood said. She adjusted her coat in the mirror, tidying her hair. "Unless she calls." She turned away from the mirror and took a business card from her pocket, handing it to Mycroft. "Here, it's my number. My _private_ number."

Mycroft blinked. "Why would I need that?"

"I don't know. Maybe you'd like a drink some time."

"Of what?"

"Up to you." Lady Smallwood smiled. "Call me."

Mycroft laughed to himself as she left the, holding the card between his fingers before dropping it into the open notebook on his desk. He left beside her email address and her phone number – the non-private one. Though he turned to follow Lady Smallwood out of the room, he then stopped and turned back, his hand hovering over the card. He hesitated, tapping his fingers on the desk. Turning away once more, Mycroft paused. He considered the implications of receiving the number, and what it entailed. A moment later, he picked up the card.

* * *

"Get _out_!" Sherlock yelled, grabbing the door and pulling it open as he glared at the clients who'd wasted half an hour of his afternoon.

"She's possessed by the Devil!" the husband insisted. "I swear my wife is channelling Satan!"

"Yes, boring. Go away."

"I'm _not_ channelling Satan," the wife insisted as she passed Sherlock, her husband storming out of the room. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slammed the door shut behind them, heading towards the kitchen. He was amazed at how Elspeth could remain asleep throughout the whole commotion, but then she spent a lot of days in her room, hiding under her duvet. Noticing a piece of paper on the floor, Sherlock went over, bending on one knee to pick it up. It was Faith's note.

"She _was_ real," he said to himself.

Clutching the note, he started to rummage through the kitchen drawers, frantically opening and shutting them. Slamming one drawer shut, he reached for the overhead light and adjusted the bulb, plunging the kitchen into darkness. He shone an ultraviolet light on the note instead, his eyes widening as he read the note that overlaid the handwriting.

 **MISS ME?**

* * *

"You seem so much better, John."

John smiled and nodded, thinking over the past few days. "Yeah, I . . . I am. I think I am. Not all day, every day, but – uh – you know. It is what it is."

"And Rosie?" the therapist asked, nodding.

"Oh, beautiful, perfect, unprecedented in the history of children. That's not my bias, that's scientific fact," John said. Rosie's face came to his mind and he smiled again, feeling his love for her blossom in the centre of his chest. He'd made a promise to her he wasn't going to leave her; not like he did when Mary passed away. He wasn't going to let her grow up not knowing her mother, either. "Sherlock's back to normal, clean, shouting at clients for reasons I just about understand."

"What about Elspeth? You've mentioned her a few times before. How is she?"

"Better," John said. He didn't see a lot of Elspeth, and when he did, she was sweaty and trembling. "Not great, but getting better."

"What about Sherlock's brother?"

"Mycroft? He's fine. I mean, obviously normal, fine, and better are relative terms when it comes to the Holmes family."

"Obviously," the therapist said with a smile John didn't quite understand. "But I didn't mean Mycroft, I meant the other one. You know – the secret one."

"Oh, that was just something I –" John took in a deep breath, shaking his head at the absurdity of it. "– I said, I'm sure there's . . ." His voice trailed off. He stopped, leaned back, and looked at his therapist for a long moment as he processed what she had just said to him. "How did you know about that? I didn't tell you."

"You must have done," she insisted. "Well, maybe Sherlock told me."

John shifted forwards. "No, you've met Sherlock exactly once. In this room. He was off his head."

"Oh, no, no. I met before that," the therapist. She smiled again, almost wistful, as if remembering something pleasant. "We spent a night together. It was lovely, we had chips." As she continued, she took on an exaggerated Northern English accent, the same one Sherlock had described Faith Smith as having. "You're not what I expected, Mr Holmes. You're . . . nicer." Taking off her glasses, she stood up and walked to the French windows, locking them. Her accent returned to an English one while she spoke. "Culverton gave me Faith's original note. A mutual friend put us in touch. Did Sherlock ever tell you about the note? I added some deductions for him. He was quite good, but he didn't get the big one."

"What . . . I don't understand," John stammered. The therapist bent forward and held her right eye open, straightening up to reveal a coloured contact lens on the tip of her finger. As she pushed her hair over her shoulder, John realised her eyes were a familiar grey-blue in colour, piercing and calculating.

"In fairness, though, he does have excellent taste in chips." She tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing a white plastic daisy.

"What's that?" John asked. "The flower in your hair, it's like I had on the bus."

"You looked very sweet," the therapist said, plucking it from behind her ear. "But then . . ." She spoke with a soft Scottish accent. "You have such nice eyes." John stared at her, sinking back in his chair. "Amazing the times a man doesn't really look at your face." Turning, she walked across the room and picked something up from a nearby table, but John couldn't see what. "You can hide behind a sexy smile or a walking cane, or just be a therapist, talking about you all the time, or even be yourself and offer a listening ear to a troubled soul on the roof of a hospital."

John knew he was in danger then.

Rising to his feet, he froze when she turned with a pistol in her hand, aimed directly at him. John raised his hands, thought of Rosie, and drew in a quick breath.

"Please don't go anywhere. I'm sure the therapist who actually lives here wouldn't want blood on the carpet. Oh, hang on, it's fine. She's in a sack in the airing cupboard."

"Who are you?" John demanded.

"Isn't it obvious? Haven't you guessed? I'm Eurus."

"Eurus," he repeated.

"Silly name, isn't it? Greek. Means the East Wind. Silly names seem to run in my family, like Eurus . . . or Mycroft . . . or Sherlock and Elspeth, though I suppose she has the most normal of the bunch," Eurus added, considering it for a moment. All John could do was stare at her in disbelief, his hands trembling. "Oh, look at him. Didn't it ever occur to you – not even once – that Sherlock's secret brother might just be his secret sister?" John frowned. "Huh. He's making a funny face . . . I think I'll put a hole in it."

Eurus raised the gun. She pulled the trigger.

* * *

 _Thank you That's Balderdash, Adrillian1497, therealjainasolo, and TheDayDreamingWriter for reviewing. I can't apologise enough for the delay in updating; thank you all for waiting xoxo_


	25. Chapter 25

_**25.**_

John woke up to the sound of someone saying his name. Not someone. Sherlock. Sherlock was saying his name, patting his cheek in an attempt to wake him up. His brow furrowing, John opened his eyes slowly and looked around the room, the same room his therapy sessions were held in. It didn't make sense. The last time he'd been in that room, he'd been with Eurus. Eurus had aimed a gun at him . . . hadn't she? He remembered the paralysing fear, the thought of never seeing Rosie again, the revelation that Sherlock's secret brother didn't exist because he actually had a secret _sister_. Sherlock said his name again and John opened his mouth.

"Eurus," he breathed out.

"What?" Sherlock asked, helping John sit up. Elspeth kneeled next to him and handed him a glass of water, looking a little worse for wear herself. Holding up a small dart to show John, Sherlock added, "Tranquiliser. It was in your neck. Who did this to you?"

"Eurus," John said again. "Eurus – she was posing as my therapist – she was the girl – the girl on the bus." He glanced at Elspeth. Ever since he'd met her, he had been struck by her resemblance to Sherlock, but now all he could see was Eurus. They both had the same dark hair, the same sculpted features, even the same sharp eyes. John frowned at her for a moment before looking at Sherlock. "Eurus," he repeated. "Your sister, Eurus. Your secret sister."

Sherlock frowned at John. "I don't have a sister."

"No – you do," John insisted. "You _do_ , she told me herself. Eurus is your sister. It's – it's a Greek name, it means the East Wind, she's your sister, Sherlock. She's been, I don't know –"

"Locked up," Elspeth finished softly. "Somewhere." She thought back to her night on the roof and meeting Elizabeth, and what she'd said to her. Suddenly, it all made sense. The brother who locked her up was Mycroft; Sherlock didn't act like she didn't exist, he didn't _know_ she existed. She hadn't been joking when she said she'd killed someone. Elspeth looked up at Sherlock and John, her face losing what little colour that remained. "I met her. We were both on the roof of St Bart's. We spoke for a while, she was so . . . nice. I think Mycroft locked her up."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

Elspeth looked past Sherlock, out of the window. "She was so _nice_. She listened to me."

"Ellie," Sherlock said, holding her chin and turning her head so she was gazing at him instead. He didn't like the way her eyes glazed at over when she spoke. "Why did Mycroft lock her up?"

"She –" Elspeth frowned. "I think she killed someone."

* * *

A young girl opened her eyes.

The first thing she felt was the ground shaking, the walls around her rattling, emergency oxygen masks swaying above her head. Lights flickered on and off. Opening the blind, she looked outside and saw only darkness, turning to shake her mother on the shoulder instead.

"Mummy?" she asked. The plane jolted. "Mummy, wake up! Mummy!"

Her mother didn't wake up. Unclipping her seatbelt, the young girl squeezed past her mother and stepped into the aisle. Down the end, a flight attendant was unconscious and surrounded by cutlery. Looking to the front of the plane, the girl felt a gasp escape her lips as she spotted that the door to the flight deck was swinging back and forth, the pilot visibly slumped over the controls. The co-pilot lay on the floor behind his chair. As she looked around, she realised that every passenger had their eyes closed and didn't seem to be moving.

"Wake up!" the girl called to the pilot. He didn't stir.

Hearing a mobile phone ringing, she started to walk towards the source of the noise. She shook a passenger's arm in vain hope they might stir but received no response. Sweets crunched beneath the soles of her shoes. The mobile phone waited for her on a small shelf in front of the passengers in the front seats and, ignoring everything her mother had taught her about not answering someone else's phone, the young girl picked it up.

"Help me, please," she said, answering it. Her voice shook. "I'm on a plane and everyone's asleep. Help me."

There was a pause. Then –

"Hello. My name's Jim Moriarty. Welcome to the final problem."

* * *

"The only way Mycroft will crack is if we put him under some kind of pressure," John said, sitting in his armchair of 221B Baker Street. Elspeth curled up in Sherlock's chair opposite him, her long legs tucked underneath her so she looked even smaller than she already was, and watched her father pace back and forth. "Some kind of mind game maybe?"

"He might be an idiot, but that won't fool him," Sherlock said. "We need to get him to admit to my sister's existence and her incarceration."

"We could always scare him," John suggested. "Everyone is afraid of something."

"Clowns," Elspeth and Sherlock said simultaneously. Smiling a little and absent-mindedly playing with the ends of her hair, Elspeth continued, "He doesn't like clowns. Never has. You should hire a children's clown – you know, the sort with the big hair and the squeaky nose. Have him appear in a corridor or something like that, make it seem like it's following Mycroft in his own home. He'll hate that."

"Mycroft has footage of our childhood," Sherlock said, still pacing. "He scoffs at the notion of sentimentality but keeps a projector and screen so he can watch them whenever he chooses. He's a creature of habit, he watches a film with it every Friday evening without fail."

"So we get the film and ruin it," Elspeth said. She shrugged. "Make it seem like Eurus has sent a message."

"Assuming he is afraid of Eurus, that is," John pointed out.

"He's afraid. Why else would he have her locked away and never mention her existence to me?" Sherlock asked. He stopped pacing and ushered Elspeth off his chair, flopping down with a heavy sigh. Elspeth perched on the arm instead, leaning against his shoulder.

She bit her lip. "Do you think she was telling the truth when she told me she'd killed someone?"

Sherlock looked up at her. "What do you think?"

"I think she was," Elspeth said quietly, thinking about their encounter on the roof of the hospital. It seemed strange to her that of all three of them, Eurus chose to remain herself when meeting Elspeth. Asides from the fake name, Eurus has been completely herself when they spoke, not relying on a costume or an accent. She couldn't work out why she would reveal herself in such a way to her, but not Sherlock or John. "She had dark hair . . . if we really want to scare Mycroft, we could make it seem like she's really there. Or make it seem like a young version of herself is there."

John frowned at her, trying to imagine the scenario. "How would we do that?"

"Short man, long wig, girly dress." Elspeth shrugged. "Easy."

"I never know whether I should be worried about your imagination or not," John told her. "Right, I'm going to put the kettle on."

"Tea for me, please," Sherlock said.

"Me too," Elspeth said. They didn't really have to ask; John knew what they wanted. "Do you remember when things used to be kind of normal? It was just us in that crappy flat that you never paid the rent for and Lestrade would bring you weird cases that didn't involve secret sisters and criminal masterminds." Sherlock made a noise of agreement under his breath. "Do you ever think things will be like that again?"

Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together. He glanced at Elspeth. "Like what?"

"Normal." Elspeth gave him a sad smile. "Or as normal as we can be."

"I doubt it," Sherlock muttered, looking away again as he fell deep in thought.

"Yeah," Elspeth said softly. "Me too."

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Elspeth said, perching on the windowsill behind a pair of heavy curtains. The lights were off and if it wasn't for the natural light streaming in through the window, she would've barely been able to see Sherlock's silhouetted profile next to her. Sighing, she rested her head against the side and wiped the thin layer of sweat on her forehead away with the heel of her palm. Sherlock had suggested she'd stayed home. For once in her life, Elspeth wished she'd listened to him. "You could just ask him outright, you'll know if he's lying to you or not."

"No, this is important," Sherlock said. "Fear will make him tell the truth. If she is truly our sister, he'll be afraid of any threats of her existence coming to fruition."

"Are you sure you just don't want to make him suffer?" Elspeth asked.

Sherlock's lips tilted into a small smile. "That as well."

Footsteps rushed into the room, doors rattling as Mycroft tried to open them. Sherlock had already taken the liberty of locking them so his brother was trapped in the room, his breathes short and panicked. Elspeth glanced up at Sherlock, wondering if it was really worth it. A moment later, Sherlock stepped out from behind the curtain and let out a piercing whistle, bringing the chaos to a halt. Reaching up, Elspeth turned on a light and pushed the curtain back.

"Experiment complete," Sherlock said. "Conclusion: I have a sister."

"This was you? All of this was _you_?"

"Conclusion two," Sherlock continued. "My sister – Eurus, apparently – has been incarcerated from an early age in a secure institution controlled by my brother." He waved cheerfully at Mycroft. "Hey bro!"

Elspeth raised a hand and tiredly wriggled her fingers at Mycroft, who glared at her.

"Why would you do this . . . this _pantomime_?" Mycroft demanded. "Why would you involve Elspeth? _Why_?"

"Conclusion three: you are terrified of her!"

"You have no idea what you're dealing with," Mycroft said. "None at all."

"New information," John said, coming out of a corridor where he had been waiting, listening to Sherlock and Mycroft. "She's out. She was my therapist. Terrible, really, shot me during a session. We still had ten minutes to go."

"We'll see about a refund," Sherlock said. He walked down the stairs with Elspeth following close behind, and Mycroft didn't miss the way she clung to the banister for support. He looked between the actors he'd hired to scare Mycroft, the children's clown and a short man dressed as a young girl with a wig, he added, "Right, you two, Wiggins has got your money by the gate. Don't spend it all in one crack den." Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock smiled at his brother. "I hope we didn't spoil your enjoyment of the movie."

"You're just _leaving?_ " Mycroft asked, watching his brother head towards the door.

"We're not staying here," Sherlock said. He paused to let Elspeth catch up. "Eurus is coming and someone's disabled all your security." He opened the door and walked away, calling over his shoulder, "Sleep well!"

"Oh, um, you might need these back," Elspeth said, digging into her pocket and handing Mycroft a pair of wire cutters, along with several of the wires from his security system. John smirked. "I'm sure you can get someone to come out and look at it." Mycroft raised his eyebrows at her, unimpressed. "Sorry about that," Elspeth added, grimacing. "See you later."

John shook his head as Elspeth left, turning to follow her when Mycroft stopped him.

"Doctor Watson," he said. "Why would they do that me? That was insane!"

"Uh, yeah, someone convinced him that you wouldn't tell the truth unless you were actually wet himself," John said. He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Probably me. Ellie suggested the clown, though. And the girl. She has a warped imagination, you know."

"So that's it, is it? You're just going."

"Don't worry, there's a place for people like you," John said. "The desperate, the terrified, the ones with nowhere else to run. 221B Baker Street." Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, letting his head hang in resignation as resentment for his brother and niece coursed through him. "See you in the morning. If there's a queue, join it."

"For God's sake," Mycroft snapped. "This is not one of your idiot cases!"

"Oh," John added, forgetting something. He walked back to the hall. "You might want to close that window. There is an East Wind coming."

* * *

 _Thank you therealjainasolo, Adrillian1497, boardwalkblue, harvesthands, and sophopera for reviewing!_


	26. Chapter 26

_**26.**_

You have to sit in the chair," Mrs Hudson told Mycroft. He stood beside the chair reserved for clients with a stubborn expression, his arms folded as he refused to move from his spot. Sherlock and John were in their usual spots in their armchairs, waiting in silence, and Elspeth perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair with her legs curled up to her chest. No one was looking at each other. Mrs Hudson waited in the doorway, her arms folded, and sighed. "They won't talk to you unless you sit in the chair. It's the rules."

Mycroft glared at her. "I'm not a client."

"Then get out," Sherlock said, still refusing to look at him. Elspeth smiled a little but it didn't quite reach her eyes. John glanced at her with a sad expression, then looked at Mycroft. The older Holmes brother hesitated a moment more before raising his hands in surrender, taking a seat in the chair reserved for clients.

"She's not going to stay there, is she?" Mycroft asked, gesturing towards Mrs Hudson. The landlady raised her eyebrows, unimpressed.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she offered. When Mycroft nodded, she pointed towards the kitchen and said, "The kettle is over there."

"You're going to tell the truth, Mycroft," Sherlock said. Elspeth's face paled when she thought about what her father was saying. She tightened her arms around her legs, not noticing the way Sherlock looked up at her when she did. "Pure and simple."

"Who was it that said truth is rarely pure and never simple?"

"I don't know and I don't care," Sherlock said, glaring at Mycroft. "So there were three of us, I know that now. You, me, and . . . Eurus. A sister I can't remember. Interesting name, Eurus. It's Greek, isn't it? The God of the East Wind, isn't that right, John?" Reading the notes he'd made, John nodded in agreement. "'The East Wind is coming, Sherlock'. You used that to scare me. You turned my sister into a ghost story."

"Of course I didn't, I monitored you," Mycroft said. He sighed. "Memories can resurface, wounds can re-open. The road we walk have demons beneath –" He glanced at Sherlock, who stared back at his brother with an unfathomable expression. "– and yours have been waiting for a very long time. I never bullied you. I used – at discrete intervals – potential trigger words to update myself as to your mental condition. I was looking after you."

Sherlock frowned. "Why can't I remember her?"

Mycroft paused. He looked between Elspeth, who was gazing absent-mindedly at her own lap, and John, who seemed to realise that he wasn't welcome in this conversation.

"This is a private matter," Mycroft said pointedly.

"John stays," Sherlock said.

"This is family," Mycroft said in a harsh whisper, leaning forwards in his chair.

"That's why he stays," Sherlock snapped back, loud enough to snap Elspeth out of her trance and gain her attention. She lifted her head, her eyes darting between the three of them as a slight frown tugged on her lips.

"So there were three Holmes kids," John said, settling back in his chair. "What was the age gap?"

"Seven years between myself and Sherlock. One year between Sherlock and Eurus."

"Middle child. Explains a lot," John said. Sherlock glared at him but Elspeth smiled again, though it still didn't reach her eyes. Though she was in the room, she was lost in her own mind, barely paying attention to anything the men around her were saying. She couldn't take her mind off Eurus. "So did she have it too? The . . . deduction thing?"

"More than you can know," Mycroft said. He gestured between himself and Sherlock. "You realise I'm the smart one?"

"Which you never cease to announce," Elspeth said, speaking for the first time. Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft glanced at her. "Eurus, she was incandescent even then. Our abilities were professionally assessed more than once. I was remarkable, but Eurus was described as an era-defining genius, beyond Newton. You do remember her, Sherlock, in a way. Every choice you ever made, every path you've ever taken, the man you are today, is your memory of Eurus." He thought about when he and his siblings were younger, remembering the time the parents took them to the beach. "She was different from the beginning. She knew things she should never have known, as if she was somehow aware of truths beyond the normal scope."

Eurus, no older than six, turned to him in his mind. She wore a blue and white dress with a knitted cardigan over the top, her hair tied into bunches that bounced on either side of her head every time she moved.

"You look funny grown up," she said.

"What's wrong?" John asked, noticing Mycroft stiffen in his chair.

"Sorry. The memories are disturbing," Mycroft said. "They found her with a knife once. She seemed to be cutting herself. Mother and father were terrified, they thought it was a suicide attempt. When I asked Eurus what she was doing, she said she wanted to see how her muscles worked. So I asked her if she felt pain and she said –"

"Which one's pain?" Eurus asked.

Elspeth looked at her uncle. "What happened?"

"Musgrave," Mycroft said. "The ancestral home, where there was always honey for tea and Sherlock played among the funny gravestones. They weren't real, the dates were all wrong. An architectural joke which fascinated Sherlock."

It was then Sherlock started to remember. That odd song Eurus would sing to wind him up, the lyrics nonsensical and cryptic; Redbeard, the family dog who went missing and only she seemed to know where he had gone, but she refused to say; the fire that destroyed the Musgrave home, the house that would've been passed down from generation to generation. Sherlock frowned when he thought about the old country house, wondering if it would've been beneficial if it had never been destroyed. Perhaps it would've been a sanctuary for the Holmes family to escape to when life became too overwhelming, or merely a space large enough to host the elaborate Christmas celebrations his parents insisted upon. It could've been a place for Elspeth to grow up, away from London and all of its dangers.

"After that, our sister had to be taken away," Mycroft said. "Some suitable place, or so everyone thought. Not suitable enough. She died there. She started another fire, one she did not survive."

"You're lying," Elspeth said quietly. She didn't look at him.

"Yes, out of kindness. This is the story I told our parents to spare them further pain, and to account for the absence of an identifiable body."

"And no doubt to prevent their further interference," Sherlock added.

"Well, that too, of course. The depth of Eurus' psychosis and the extent of her abilities couldn't hope to be contained in any ordinary institution. Uncle Rudy took care of things," Mycroft said. "There's a place called Sherrinford – an island. It's a secure and very secretive instillation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call the uncontainables. The demons beneath the road – this is where we trap them. Sherrinford is more than a prison or an asylum; it is a fortress built to keep the rest of the world safe from what is inside it. Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and the afraid, but I can give you a map reference for Hell. That's where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn't left – not for a single day." Mycroft looked at Sherlock, then John, and finally Elspeth. "Whoever you met, it can't have been her."

That was when the drone flew in.

A voice sang that odd song Sherlock remembered, a silver grenade sitting on the top of the drone; the patience grenade. The motion sensor activated the moment the drone touched the floor and everyone froze, highly aware of the fact that it would detonate should any of them move. It was powerful enough to destroy the flat and everyone in it, and Mycroft considered that the café below was in danger as well.

"What about Mrs Hudson?" John asked, remembering that she hoovered every Sunday morning.

"Going by her usual routine, I estimate she has two minutes left," Sherlock said. Mrs Hudson kept the vacuum at the back of her flat, so they decided it would be safest to wait until she finished cleaning. Mycroft would take the stairs when they moved in order to help get her out of the flat; Sherlock, John, and Elspeth would take the windows. "Is a phone call possible? John has a daughter, he may wish to say goodbye."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson. Any movement will set off the grenade," Mycroft said. "I hope you understand."

John understood. He didn't like it, but he understood.

"I'm sorry, Ellie," Sherlock said abruptly. Her eyes shot to him. She didn't move her head. "I never should've brought you into any of this, it's my duty as a father to protect you, but just know I am proud to call you my daughter."

"As am I," Mycroft said. "to call you my niece."

"The Importance of Being Earnest," Elspeth said. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "Oscar Wilde. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. I read it in school."

"I recall," Mycroft said. "So did we. I was Lady Bracknell."

"You were great," Sherlock told him, the first compliment he had paid his brother in years. Perhaps it was the danger of imminent danger that encouraged the sudden bout of sincerity, but Mycroft appreciated it all the same. "Good luck, boys, Ellie."

For Elspeth, it felt like time dragged by. She was aware of Sherlock's hand in her own, dragging her along, and of the burning heat on the back of her neck. The glass shattered when she impacted with it and a deafening bang filled the space, black smoke plummeting after her as she felt herself flying through the air, falling down faster than she expected. Somewhere along the way she'd let go of Sherlock and she crashed to the ground, everything going dark. She didn't know how long she was out for but when Elspeth came around, she felt a searing pain shoot through her arm, glancing down to see it bleeding and swollen. Smoke surrounded her, engulfing her.

Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear people shouting, someone telling to stay still even as she was trying to sit up. Her arm felt like someone was stabbing a white-hot iron into the muscles and bones and her head was pounding and her vision was blurry, but still Elspeth searched for any sign of Sherlock or John or Mycroft. She couldn't see them through the smoke or hear them over the sound of the sirens getting closer and closer. Looking around, Elspeth spotted a figure not far from her, too wide to be Sherlock but too tall to be John. Mycroft. He was lying face down on the pavement and he wasn't moving. Elspeth couldn't even tell if he was breathing.

"Mycroft," she tried to call, her voice coming out barely above a whisper. Her throat hurt. "Mycroft . . ."

She struggled pathetically, barely able to move. Tears stung her eyes and all Elspeth could think was Mycroft was dead and John and Sherlock were gone or worse, and Eurus had somehow escaped from Sherrinford, and Moriarty was still out there somewhere and no one knew. Everything hurt; all she felt was an overwhelming fear until the darkness took over.

* * *

Mycroft's flat was not as comfortable as Baker Street.

Elspeth flicked through the channels of the TV, bored. Mycroft and Sherlock had disappeared earlier that day, and John was home with Rosie. He'd offered Sherlock and Elspeth a place to stay, but they decided it was safer for both him and Rosie if they remained at Mycroft's. 221B Baker Street was destroyed, leaving behind an empty shell of their home. Glancing at the cast on her arm, Elspeth sighed. They had all suffered injuries of varying degrees; Elspeth was the only one who had come away from the incident with a broken arm. Since then, Sherlock barely let her out of his sight. He wouldn't even let her take painkillers without supervision.

"It's ridiculous," Mycroft said as the front door opened, the two Holmes brothers striding in.

"It's the only option we have," Sherlock argued.

"No, it isn't. You have to stay out of this, Sherlock, it will not end well for anyone."

"What won't?" Elspeth piped up, turning the TV off. Mycroft didn't answer, taking his coat off and hanging it up with his umbrella instead. Sherlock glanced her way with a grim expression. "What are you going to? Is it about Eurus?"

"No," Mycroft said at the same time as Sherlock said, "Yes." The younger Holmes brother rolled his eyes, then continued, "Yes, it is about Eurus. Mycroft is insisting that she hasn't left Sherrinford but refuses to allow me to go there."

"It's dangerous, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "You will be putting yourself – not to mention everyone else – in unnecessary danger. Eurus can't have escaped from Sherrinford, it is a secure location and near impossible –"

"I saw her," Elspeth interrupted. She stood up. "I met her, I _spoke_ to her. She was sitting right beside me, talking to me, asking me questions. I had a whole conversation with her so don't you _dare_ tell me she wasn't really there!" She threw the remote down in frustration, becoming more and more frantic when she thought about Eurus. "This is real, Mycroft, this happening. Just because you bury your head in the sand and pretend it isn't happening doesn't mean it's true. It is happening and we have to do something about it, whether you like it or not." A short pause followed as Mycroft and Sherlock considered her words. Elspeth took in a deep breath. "So what are we going to do?"

Sherlock frowned. "I think it's time you meet your aunt, Ellie."

* * *

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